


is that you in the photo?

by witchneedlove



Category: Minecraft Youtubers
Genre: AU, Chats, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 80,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28430853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchneedlove/pseuds/witchneedlove
Summary: George doesn't sit on social media. Or rather, he did not sit down until he suddenly received several messages that were clearly not addressed to him.And then the city began to crumble, and with it all of George's peaceful world
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Dream
Comments: 14
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [это ты на фото?](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/734811) by НикенСлиндер. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George doesn't sit on social media. Or rather, he did not sit down until he suddenly received several messages that were clearly not addressed to him.
> 
> And then the city began to crumble, and with it all of George's peaceful world

it's cold. George squints at the heater in the corner of the room, mentally asking it to work harder, otherwise the guy will soon turn into a fucking snowman. The temperature outside was only a couple of degrees below zero, and the house was already freezing, as if an ice age was about to come. The batteries absolutely refused to work, the hot water from the tap flowed every other day, so an old heater, forgotten in the attic, came to the rescue, buzzing loudly, as if dissatisfied with the fact that it was (for the first time in several years) forced to work.

Dark-hair man tucks his legs under him, wrapping himself more tightly in the blanket he dragged from the bed, and turns his head to the screen, which was a bright spot in the darkness. Some toy, bought by George at a discount in the store, categorically refuses to start, offering the guy to be content with just a screensaver. Eh... The guy gets up from his seat, makes a few circles around the room, trying to keep warm. The body, it seems, is already beginning to turn into ice. The brunette even runs his fingers over his forehead to make sure that it is not covered with ice.

It's a damn idyll outside. Despite the cold snap, for which absolutely no one was prepared, preparations for the festival continued in full swing on the central square. The snow had fallen only a few hours ago, and the kids were already out on the square, making snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other. The children did not care at all that the city was, to tell the truth, a quiet horror. Yes, it is quiet. Shlaton did not like to show his bad side in front of everyone, but those who had a gray mass in their head were well aware that the president was going crazy. No one knew the exact station from which the cuckoo was going, but all sensible people understood that it would not lead to anything good. And George, looking at the children frolicking merrily in the snow, wished he hadn't realized how bad it was. How bad it is that the city has stopped, stopped developing and contacting others. How terrible is the fact that everyone who publicly said something bad about the current ruler was sent to prison or disappeared altogether. The bloody iron Curtain, no doubt. How many people understood this? Well, probably most of them. At the very least, almost everyone George knew was convinced that the city was in danger. But what to do with it — no one knew. And those who had any suggestions were too intimidated to talk about them out loud. The city was slowly dying along with its inhabitants, who could not even leave it without a good reason — they needed permission. Such a ban was explained by the media by the fact that the plague had passed through the world and it was a bad idea to let outsiders into the city. But no measures other than the curtain were taken. From the plague-one name… 

Music began to play from the broken speakers, slightly straying and hanging, but however, remaining quite pleasant — the game still started, and the start button stood out brightly against the background of the dim menu. George had already sat down at the table, ready to start the game, when suddenly the phone beeped, announcing a new notification. The guy stretched out his hand, removing the lock from the screen and in surprise rereads the message that came from an incomprehensible to him on some social network, the presence of which on his mobile phone the brunette did not even know.

**NighTMAre** : okay, let's say I agree… I can't say that I'm interested in it or that it's good for me, but it sounds fun, and L'amanburg needs a little fun)))

George with interest to grasp the meaning of the words written without a "Hello" or "Goodbye". It was as if the message had been sent in the midst of a conversation between two people.

"On the other hand," - George tells himself. - "This message was clearly not addressed to me, so it's not for me to respond to it"

**NighTMAre** : in any case, a deal is a deal. The conditions are quite satisfactory to me. The question remains, what is the probability of your success?Schlatt has a lot of fucking guards. Yes, their intellectual abilities are on the level of this drinking guy, but still…

**NighTMAre** : imagine if he chose his subordinates from former drinking buddies))0))

**NighTMAre** : am? .. ТB? Are you ignoring me?

George reads the first message nervously. Yes, of course, it was impossible to judge the conversation by the four messages, but the mention of the current ruler in a negative way, I must admit, was annoying. About this... it was not customary to talk and that's all. Those who talked about it usually ended their lives in a ditch, or lived out their last days behind bars. "A terrorist threat to society," as Schlatt once put it in one of his speeches. And George, admittedly, did not really want to become a threat in the eyes of both the public and law enforcement, so he decided to finish the monologue of this strange man.

**user406674** : Sorry I didn't answer you right away, but you got the wrong recipient. I haven't crossed paths with anyone in the last three days, and I certainly haven't made any deals, I'm sorry.

George bites his lip nervously, looking at the sign that says the other person is typing a new message.

**NighTMAre:** Oh…

**NighTMAre:** I'm sorry if I scared you:)

**user406674:** Nothing, it happens to everyone.

George is already putting his hand on the mouse, ready to start shooting at the strange-looking aliens, like…

**NighTMAre:** why do you have an empty account, a new one here? No avatar, no nickname…

**NighTMAre:** hiding something?)

**user406674:** I almost don't use social networks, that's all, nothing criminal.

The brunette snorts into his fist. It is clear that the stranger is just kidding, but it is worth justifying just in case — this is a matter of if not honor, then George's creature for sure.

**NighTMAre:** I thought people like you were transferred, but no! Wow…

**NighTMAre:** can you still put something on? Empty accounts look so sad, like abandoned houses, you know? The owner seems to be there, and no one takes care of the house, does not throw out garbage, does not wipe the dust

**NighTMAre:** bad, in short, look. Do you understand what I mean?

**user406674:** Probably…

**NighTMAre:** pf, I don't think so

**NighTMAre:** in any case, it's time for me to send messages to the recipient, otherwise he will be angry

**NighTMAre:** bye bye)

George thinks about how he actually wanted to play a new game. He even started it, despite the computer's frantic attempts to stop him, but continues to waste free minutes for the sake of talking to some stranger in the chat room, who was not even going to write to him-he just made a mistake with the address, but still zealously maintained the dialogue, spitting on George's obvious confusion and laconicism. The guy clicks on the empty icon, getting to his profile page, created, according to the date in the settings, a couple of years ago. The icon where the profile picture should be is decorated with a bold cross, as if the program itself asks to "revive" the account. Dust the house, take out the trash. Clean up the mess. And he doesn't care that he didn't communicate with anyone on this social network, he did it more for his own satisfaction than to make his profile look a little more presentable than empty accounts advertising drugs and work with quick earnings. He flips through the gallery and clicks his tongue in exasperation — not a single photo that would fit his profile. The guy sighs and, feeling like a complete idiot, turns on the camera, not even trying to find a normal angle for the photo. Yes, there — he does not even get out from under the blanket, so as not to freeze his feet once again.

So it is not surprising that the photo is far from perfect. Funny hair disheveled, as if the guy had just got out of bed, which confirms the blanket draped over her shoulders, clothes wrinkled, and table lamp included only for photo Shine directly into eyes, so the guy has to blink. However, this is not the worst picture that George has ever taken-remember only the photos from his coming of age. It's creepy… And no one will even see this one unless they specifically search, studying millions of profiles, in search of a single dark-haired man wrapped in a blanket.

The next item is his nickname. At first, the guy even thinks that, perhaps, this point can be missed. Then - "user406674" is very annoying, but the real name of the guy is not eager to put — there is no need for this. He just needs to revive his account, nothing more. So that it does not look like a tombstone, forgotten somewhere in the vastness of the World Wide Web. George hesitantly clicks on the buttons, typing in a new name.

***

What time is it? George squints at the lower-right corner of the screen. Half past three. And this despite the fact that he has to work at nine. Brilliant. For a few hours, the room not only did not warm up — it became even colder than it was, because the raid on the kitchen became a real test for the resistance of his body to frost. Tomorrow it would be worth going and finding out how long it would take him to die of cold in his own house. Or shouldn't I have? The brunette burns his fingers as he pours tea into a mug. He hisses, shaking his hand, and watches in fascination as the skin begins to turn red, tingling unpleasantly. He seems to be losing his mind from lack of sleep, and he snorts softly, gripping the mug tighter as it starts to warm up. Soon he will definitely get a second burn, but now the guy is happy to squeeze hot ceramics. He carefully walks back into the room, careful not to spill a drop of the sacred drink. He thinks about the fact that he did not take anything for tea, the guy later, when he is already sitting in front of the computer, taking a sip from the mug. Tea burns from the inside, but there are no unpleasant sensations-on the contrary. It seems to George that a fire has been lit in him, which has begun to wake up the already falling asleep brain and body. Getting... easy? Yes, probably…

The phone, the sound on which was automatically turned off at night, vibrates on the wooden surface of the table, and the guy takes it in his hand, putting down the cup, looking in surprise at the notification of a new message from a familiar (and, in general, the only) contact.

**NighTMAre:** aww, you really did it  
 **NighTMAre:** nice  
 **NicknameNotFound:** ?  
 **NighTMAre:** well, nickname and photo  
 **NighTMAre:** Did you put them up for me?

George is not sure why or who he did it for, so he thinks about this question a little more than he should, but the other person does not rush him, allowing him to think about how to answer.

**NicknameNotFound:** None. I just thought that you need to somehow revive the account.  
 **NighTMAre:** (((  
 **NighTMEre:** I could have lied (

George snorts as he takes another sip of his drink, and without realizing it, he starts to smile at the screen of his smartphone.

**NicknameNotFound:** I'm sorry. I'm not ready to change my account for the sake of extremist strangers. I just remembered it only when you wrote it.  
 **NighTMAre:** in the sense of extremists?  
 **NighTMAre:** Oh, oh, are you talking about the first messages?  
 **NighTMAre:** Well, I'm right-the drunk surrounded himself with an army of drunks. Don't you agree?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You can go to jail for saying that, you know?  
 **NighTMAre:** haha, good luck to them)0))  
 **NighTMAre:** in any case, if anything, I will say that you are an accomplice and you will be tied up with me. That's going to be fun…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I hope you were joking?..  
 **NighTMAre:** …  
 **NighTMAre:** Hope…

And, like, George should block this strange person, because of which he can have problems with the law, if he does not joke about the accomplice, but the guy just pulls his blanket off the chair, takes a last sip of tea and trudges into bed, falling into it right in his clothes — there is no strength to take it off. Fingers quickly tap on the screen, typing a new message.

**NicknameNotFound:** Are you threatening me?  
 **NighTMAre:** No, what makes you think that?  
 **NighTMAre:** Do you think I'm some kind of villain?)

George is about to answer, but…

**NighTMAre:** I forgot to ask…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What?  
 **NighTMAre:** Is that you in the picture?

The brunette freezes for a second, thinking about what kind of photo is in question at all, and then burns with shame — it should not have been seen! Especially this crazy guy with weird and possibly dangerous cockroaches in his head.

**NicknameNotFound:** Yes?.. Why put someone else's photo on the avatar at all?  
 **NighTMAre:** wow… I thought you were 30 years old, with such an attitude to technology, lol  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm 24…  
 **NighTMAre:** what? You are 17-18 years old in the photo, when did you make it at all?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Um ... this evening?  
 **NighTMAre:** Can't be. You either sold your soul so you wouldn't grow old, or you're lying  
 **NighTMAre:** by the way…  
 **NighTMAre:** You're cute)

The guy choked on air after reading the last message. He wanted to be outraged, but he didn't know what to write, so he used the old and proven tactic of ignoring what was not worth reacting to.

**NicknameNotFound:** I'm need sleep I have to go to work by nine.  
 **NighTMAre:** oooh come on. Lack of sleep does not lead to anything good)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Unfortunately, I know…  
 **NighTMAre:)))**  
 **NighTMAre:** good night  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It's funny to see this from a person with the nickname Nightmare…

George was sleepy, so he closed his eyes and dropped the phone on his chest without even saying goodbye. He didn't have the strength to get up to charge his cell phone. Tomorrow,probably, the phone will go dead at work. After a short dialogue with a stranger, the brunette felt strange. As if squeezed out like a damn lemon. He didn't want to think about anything, just wanted to sleep, wrapped up in his favorite blanket. He wanted to get some sleep, even if the guy's sleep wouldn't have been longer than four hours — it wouldn't hurt to dream, would it?..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the author has a group in vk: https://vk.com/public202482725  
> in this group there is art on fanfiction and the author posts all sorts of things.  
> it's in Russian, but.. Idk, just leave it here if you're interested.


	2. Chapter 2

"I dreamed too much yesterday" was the first thought of the guy when he reached for the phone that had fallen out of bed at night and found that he had forgotten to set the alarm that was turned off for the weekend. The screen blinded the boy's eyes in the dark room with the windows covered with thick curtains, but despite this, George quite clearly saw the numbers that told him that he had successfully missed going to work already two hours ago. The brunette was ready, it seems, to whine at the injustice of this mortal world, when he tried to pull off his home clothes as quickly as possible, in order to replace them with a little more presentable. The shower was postponed until the evening, as well as breakfast, with the decision to postpone which the guy's stomach, reminding of itself with a long rumble, categorically disagreed. The cold did not remind him of himself. Either because the batteries had been turned on, or because George didn't care what the temperature in his room was right now. If he were at the North Pole right now, I don't think he'd pay any attention to it.

Grabs the half-empty phone and runs out of the house, looking around nervously. The snow had already melted and frozen again during the night, so the walk to work turned into a game of "try not to fall, but at the same time move as fast as possible." He lost a few times, getting his pants dirty in the snow, before he got to the damn office. The guard standing at the entrance just nods sympathetically instead of saying hello. However, the guy only nods gratefully in response, unable to speak now, and runs up the stairs to the third floor, ignoring the elevator. The room is busy, the lamps sometimes blink, indicating that it would be worth replacing the bulbs in them, which has not been done for, it seems, several years. George hurries to his seat and plops down at the table next to Niki, who gives him a disapproving look for a few seconds before sighing and pushing her coffee cup towards him

-"Haven't you slept half the night again?"- the girl looks away from the breathless guy, starting to type something into the computer, quickly tapping her fingers on the keyboard. He takes a sip of his drink, which has already cooled down, and nods, but quickly realizes that the girl can't see him, so he quietly "uh-huh" into the mug and Nikki sighs again.

"You're going to kill yourself, Gogy," the guy turns on the computer, enters the password, and briefly examines the papers that are lying in a pile on the table, guaranteeing a lot of shit and more work. - Try sleeping pills to drink or sleep mode to maintain…

"You think I didn't try to maintain sleep patterns?" - the guy sighs, putting his elbows on the table and propping his head with his hands, which for some reason the neck refuses to hold. — I tried sleeping pills a couple of years ago. Questionable experience.

— To no avail?" the guy grunts sadly as he watches the loading wheel spin on the screen, not wanting to let the guy in on the desktop.

— Why to no avail? Dependence on sleeping pills can also be considered as a result?" the girl shakes her head in resignation.

\- The boss does not know that you are late, if anything, he will only come in an hour, relax, - the guy clicks on the "Excel" icon, giving the cup back to Niki. (ред.)

-"And the presence log?"

"I marked you. But I won't stand up for you anymore, his deputy looks at me strangely when I pick up the magazine, " the guy sighs.

-"Thank you. Sorry to inconvenience you again."

-"Come on, I'm used to it," Nikki snorts, smiling, and George smiles back out of the corner of his mouth, staring at the screen again.

***

The guy goes to the toilet a few hours later, exhaling heavily, and rubs his reddened eyes, either from long work with numbers, or from lack of sleep. He quickly washes his face, wanting to somehow cheer up, raises his head, staring at his reflection in the dirty mirror, covered with some strange-looking scratches. A tired-looking guy with sleepy eyes, a wet shirt collar, and tousled hair stared out of the glass. The cold water, admittedly, is a little refreshing, and George is about to return to the office when the phone in his pocket makes a sound, announcing a new message. The brunette with interest, which, perhaps, he is embarrassed to admit to himself, removes the lock from the mobile phone, instantly getting into the correspondence, which yesterday, it seems, did not even have time to close — so he was knocked out. Snorts, reading new messages that came in the morning-it seems that the interlocutor also fell asleep, wishing him Good night.

**NighTMAre:** Very funny, yeah. Next time, try something more original. The joke is boring (  
 **NighTMAre:** Hey, half past nine, where are you?  
 **NighTMAre:** Okay…

The new message that had just arrived was a little more blunt and categorical.

**NighTMAre:** did you die there?"  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Well ... almost. I'm at work, I can't talk.  
 **NighTMAre:** Oh, I found it… Overslept?)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Yes, I forgot to turn on the alarm clock. If it wasn't for the noise in the street, I would be sleeping and sleeping.  
 **NighTMAre:** Oh, I thought good boys like you weren't late

The guy rests his back against the cold tile, mentally glad that it's already evening and the people in the office have decreased, and therefore-and those who want to visit the restroom. His fingers quickly tap on the keyboard, typing in another message.

**NicknameNotFound:** "Good Boy"? What do you mean?  
 **NighTMAre:** You know, you look like the kind of person your parents tell you to look up to when you're a kid. Kind of "right" people, you know, right?  
 **NighTMAre:** "Do you see how good he is? You need to be the same. He doesn't swear, he studies well, and in general-he's such a good boy, and you.."  
 **NighTMAre:** this is all shit, you know  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Well, partly. I didn't have anything like this, but a couple of friends complained about it, so I know what you're talking about.  
 **NighTMAre:** Hah, it's clear that you weren't told that. I'm sure you were that role model  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I have to go, the working day is coming, and I'm sitting here on the phone. First I overslept, now this.  
 **NighTMAre:** I wanted to talk to you ((( 

George frowns as he hammers in the word that's been in his head for a long time. Probably right after Nightmer's reasoning about empty accounts and comparing them to an abandoned house.

**NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
 **NighTMAre:** what "why"?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why do you keep texting me?  
 **NighTMAre:** Uh?..  
 **NighTMAre:** You answer me so I write, isn't that the point of communication?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** No, you don't understand.. 

The guy rubs the bridge of his nose, thinking about how to explain exactly what he means.

**NicknameNotFound:** Well, you got the wrong destination, I told you about it, so why did you continue to communicate with me?  
 **NighTMAre:** well… You listened to me, I was pleased, I wrote…  
 **NighTMAre:** It feels like you're judging me  
 **NicknameNotFound:** No, just asking, sorry.  
 **NighTMAre:** The person I wrote to is usually not eager to have small talk with me  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm sorry if I offended you.  
 **NighTMAre:** You'll have to try to hurt me :)  
 **NighTMAre:** Weren't you in a hurry to get back to work?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Shit. 

***

Nikki looks at him in surprise, leaning back in her chair as he comes out of the bathroom, his hair sticking out like hedgehog needles. The working day is coming to an end, the workers begin to quickly gather, hurrying to get home as soon as possible. The girl looks at the amount of work the guy has left and sighs, knowing that he will refuse to help if she offers it.

\- "What took you so long?" - she gets up from her chair and stretches, already squinting at her coat and thinking about how good she'll be when she gets home.

-"Uh... never mind, actually. Leaving already?" - He chuckles as he takes his seat and watches Nikki carefully check her purse to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. She threw on a coat that had been bought recently, judging by the unbroken tag, and waved goodbye.

-"Yeah, see you tomorrow. Try to leave early" - the guy sighs, turning his tired gaze back to the screen, mentally cursing his love of the night. Leaving early, well, well... it would be good if he could leave before it was time to get ready to go back to work.

***

The figures from the tables are quickly replaced by the names of the employers and employees of the firm in which George had the stupidity to get a job. Price tags, tables, lists-everything flashes before his eyes like a fucking firework, mixing, and the guy, sighing, rereads his writing, looking for another typo, because of which the table refuses to show him another fucking unnecessary statistics. One, the most annoying-flashing lamp, as if deciding to mock even more, turns off completely, making a strange sound, like a whistle from a balloon, when it is pierced with a needle and it begins to slowly release the air that it has stored in itself. The darkness at first scares, and then calms, as if enveloping, and the guy exhales wearily, leaning back in the office chair, closing his eyes. The office was empty — all his colleagues had already left, except for the night guard and a couple of damn workaholics who liked to stay up all night, running around the second floor and George could hear their conversations and outrages even in his office. His eyes, tired from staring at the screen for twelve hours, are silently begging them not to open and let them enjoy the darkness, while George asks them to stop talking nonsense and go back to work, and common sense, which has been watching all this from a corner of his mind, where he has retreated from sin, weakly asks the dark-haired man to see a psychiatrist, as talking with his own eyes is the first sign of madness. George and the eyes unanimously agree to this proposal, and common sense falls silent, expressing its point of view. George tries to analyze what just happened, but it's not very successful. One thing he knows for sure — from lack of sleep, he finally goes crazy. Awesome.

Somehow he gets up from his seat, opens his struggling eyes, raises his head up and looks at the lamp that has stopped burning, and then at the few sheets that remain on his desk. Of course, there are no electricians now — they sleep in a warm bed, and working in the dark is such an idea, you don't want to spoil your vision, and so everything is wrong with him. He promises himself that tomorrow he will stay as long as he needs to, so that he can finish all the work by Wednesday and not suffer any more with the deadline stubbornly biting his heels. He takes a clean sheet of paper, quickly writing a note to the electricians that the lamp waved a handkerchief, and therefore it would be worth noticing the light bulbs in it, and then, with a sigh of relief, begins to go home with a calm soul.

He almost runs up the stairs, wanting to get out on the street, and then wrap himself up with a cup of tea in his favorite blanket and curse this damn day while sitting at the computer (which is clearly not happy with reddened eyes). He passes the note to the night guard, who looks at him with eyes wide with shock — as if he has seen a ghost and not a delayed employee, nods at the request to pass the paper to the electricians when they come in the morning, and the dark-haired man with a calm soul falls out into the street. The phone beeps in his pocket, and George pulls it out, expecting to see a new message, but it's only a notification that the mobile phone has fifteen percent left and should probably be charged. He exhales, tucking the phone back into his pocket, and hurries home, avoiding the frozen puddles he knows the location of from his morning jog to work. It's cold and empty outside. At midnight, usually not crowded, all the sane people are sitting in houses and apartments, not wanting to become a victim of robbers or rapists, which recently became more affected by the fact that the government, instead of trying to improve the city tried to close the mouths of evil for her people. So it turned out that the police were chasing the opposition, and all the rot that lives in the dark alleys continued to multiply and grow in all parts of the town. George quickened his pace, his hand clenched into a nervous fist, when he noticed a movement in one of the alleys, and then heard the drunken laughter of some individuals who clearly did not have the highest moral values.

He exhales only when he comes home, almost dropping the keys, which his trembling fingers refuse to hold. The guy never liked night walks, especially in his neighborhood, where the lights only worked on the Friday of the full moon in a leap year. You never know what kind of garbage lived in another nook, in another alley. But the guy had no choice but to stay up late and then panic, walking in the dark and listening to the drunks laughing around the corner. And so every time. He enters the room, puts the phone on charge and touches the batteries, which, to his great surprise, although not hot, but warm - already progress. And the house is much warmer than the last week, which is good news. To celebrate, George even removes the mobile from the lock and enters the chat to inform his interlocutor that he is free. At least someone should be happy for him?

**NicknameNotFound:** I. Finally. At home.

George flops down on the bed, wearing clothes that should have been hung up to dry, waiting for an answer. And the message is almost instantly read, as if the interlocutor was constantly sitting on the phone and just waiting for that. Although in fact, most likely, he was just texting with someone else, which is why the reaction was so immediate.

**NighTMAre:** Wait, you just got home? I thought you were just sleeping. Almost one o'clock in the morning, who are you working there at all with such a schedule?  
 **NighTMAre:** What time did you come to work?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** About 12 o'clock, sort of.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Construction company, nothing interesting.  
 **NighTMAre:** oh, building houses?)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Rather, I make sure that houses are built and built where they need to be.  
 **NighTMAre:** Build me a house, huh?..  
 **NighTMAre:** You live in L'amanburg, right?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What makes you think that?

The guy tensed, going to his profile and checking to see if his place of residence was written there, but no-everything is empty. So such a guess immediately hit the bull's-eye a little strained.

**NighTMAre:** Only the residents of one city can call you an "Extremist Stranger" for calling their head a drunk, you know

The guy exhaled, snorting into his fist. It was all too simple and logical.

**NicknameNotFound:** I didn't think of that. Where are you from? Also from here?  
 **NighTMAre:** Hah, no, but I will come for the duration of your festival. That sounds interesting enough. A ball during the plague, damn it  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Wow, do you have a permit to enter the city? How did you get it? It's hard enough, with our rules.  
 **NighTMAre:** Well, sort of…  
 **NighTMAre:** I will keep silent about receiving for the sake of my own peace of mind :)

And here's the bell again. George realizes that the other person is hiding something, which is hardly legal or normal, and thinks that it would be worth throwing him into an emergency, but he doesn't want to lose the first person he's talked to in the last month, not counting Nikki. As he thinks, his hand clenching nervously into a fist, a new message arrives.

**NighTMAre:** Are you going to sleep now?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Hardly. I downloaded the game yesterday, I would like to play, and it wouldn't hurt to eat, I haven't eaten since last night.  
 **NighTMAre:** Eat and go to sleep, don't be a fool. Slept dick understand how much. Is it worth ruining your health for the sake of some toy?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** This is not how it works. I won't sleep until three or four in the morning, I know myself.  
 **NighTMAre:** when you go to eat-open the window in the room so that it becomes cold, then close it and go to sleep, but it is desirable to take a blanket, so that in the first two minutes from the cold you do not die. It helped me to cope with insomnia before  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'll try, thanks.  
 **NighTMAre:** you can contact ;)

***

The cold from the room reaches the kitchen, even though the door is already closed, and George shivers, imagining with horror what it would be like to fall asleep in such a cold. The sandwiches and tea aren't endless, and the guy sighs heavily when he returns to the room. What a cold day! George even wonders if the other man has some insidious plan to freeze him and take out the whole house, but quickly remembers that he has nothing to take out except a computer, an old heater and a microwave. So, having calmed down, he undresses, sets the alarm, and, cursing Nightmer with all possible words, crawls under his favorite blanket — to find a blanket in his house, it probably cost to disassemble the whole attic to hell, and there was no strength for it.

At first it was cold and the guy was wrapped more tightly in the blanket, hugging the pillow, and then, surprisingly, when he warmed up a little, he suddenly began to feel sleepy. His body refused to move, and his eyes refused to open. My head was empty and it would be blasphemy to think about anything at the moment. The phone on the table vibrated, but the guy who was falling asleep didn't hear it anymore.

**NighTMAre:** did it work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy pancake, I'm done with this shit.


	3. Chapter 3

**NighTMAre:** where are you?

 **NighTMAre:** lost-boy, hello

 **NighTMAre:** hey

 **NighTMAre:** you'll oversleep

 **NighTMAre:** HEYYY

 **NicknameNotFound:** TODAY IS SATURDAY I HAVE A DAY OFF

 **NighTMAre:** Oh)))

George rubs his sleepy eyes irritably, looking at the time. Half past eight, damn it. I could still sleep and sleep, if not for the phone, which began to ring from notifications. Yes, the last two weeks of communication undoubtedly went to the guy's advantage. At least, he began to go to bed no later than two o'clock in the morning, otherwise some people started to get mad in correspondence, and once even on the refusal of the guy threw him into the black list and did not remove him from there until the end of the next day. But in the evening, surprisingly enough, he unblocked and apologized to a puzzled George for acting like an asshole. After a week of uninterrupted communication, suddenly losing him, even for one day, was really difficult. Nikki looked at him in surprise, trying to figure out what was going on with him, and he just kept going through the cherished correspondence every ten minutes, where each time he came across an inscription saying that this user had forbidden George to send messages to tom. So when he received the message of apology, the brunette seemed to be in seventh heaven, quickly clicking on the keyboard, typing a single word "nothing". The fact that he had become so easily attached to a stranger in just two weeks was frightening, but when he saw another message, he couldn't just ignore it, so he answered. Every time. Common sense, resigned to the fact that its owner is an idiot, ready to communicate with the fuck you know who, fell silent a week ago, reminding itself only occasionally in separate phrases, as if taken out of context.

**NighTMAre:** Are you in bed all weekend again?  
 **NighTMAre:** or are you planning something?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Well, not all weekends, but most of them, for sure.  
 **NighTMAre:** You seem to have had enough sleep in the last week. Don't go to sleep for fuck's sake. Too much sleep is no better than insomnia, you know  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I Know…

George sighs and stretches, getting out of the warm bed, and goes to the kitchen to check if there's anything left in the buzzing refrigerator, but it's so empty that even a mouse can't hang itself — there's nothing to hang it on. He returns to the room, realizing that he will have to get up, get dressed and go to the store in the cold, so as not to starve. The autumn jacket, soaked last night when the guy ran home in the snow, still had no time to dry, but there was not much choice, so I had to put it on, begging the body to endure until the salary, after which it was decided to go and buy myself warm clothes. In the meantime, he could only grit his teeth and endure, making his way through the fallen snowdrifts that no one had yet managed to remove.

The store is warm and George stops at the entrance before entering the sales area, feeling the familiar vibration of the phone in his pocket. He pulls the gloves off his hands, opens the correspondence and looks in surprise at the new application for friends, and then — a message from a person who, however, would not be difficult to recognize. Especially considering how much time George had to spend with him, when former neighbors under the pretext of "well, it's not hard for you to follow him" gave him to a guy, and he had to escape from a half-witted child, and a little later — and a teenager. However, after moving two years ago, it ended, but, I must admit, the memories are still quite vivid. What was it worth when that blond jerk threw a handful of snow at his collar?

**Pimpinnit:** Hello. Are you there?"  
 **Pimpinnit:** Hey, remember me?  
 **Pimpinnit:** Answer me!  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You're hard to forget. How did you even find me?  
 **Pimpinnit:** Import contacts. I thought you weren't much of a phone person." What happened, do you really meet women here?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Tommy, is something wrong?  
 **Pimpinnit:** Not what happened, but…  
 **Pimpinnit:** Fuck  
 **Pimpinnit:** It's hard to explain  
 **Pimpinnit:** Can we meet today? Please?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Do you remember the new address?  
 **Pimpinnit:** I remember

The guy sighs, putting the phone back and rubbing the bridge of his nose. At least tell me what time he's coming. He takes the cart and goes into the salesroom, glancing around the counters-perhaps he should buy something for tea, since one impudent teenager decided to go to him for something. He's clearly not happy about the lack of everything in the house except tea, for which George seems ready to kill. Chilly. Near the refrigerators, the guy freezes, quickly running his eyes over the labels with different types of food that is heated in the microwave in five minutes, but there is no desire to buy something from all this abundance of food, because the set of products remains ordinary and boring: milk, eggs, sausage, and bread with a can of soda bought for Tommy. Adult-serious, if you can call it that. Oh, I also took cookies and questionable-looking buns with jam, which caused a strange anxiety in the guy. It was decided to feed one to Tommy and see if he would survive and not have, for example, a third hand there. The cashier smiled faintly at him at the checkout, greeting him. Judging by her sluggishness — she also just woke up and came to the damn work on the weekend, because the guy only mentally sympathized with her, patiently waiting for the woman to scan the products and name the price of purchases.

The cold air slammed me in the face when George came out into the street. He had to add a scarf to his winter shopping list, or his face, protected only by his glasses, was begging him to barricade himself in the house and not put him through the ordeal of going outside again. The handle of the bag presses painfully on the hand that the guy forgot to put a glove on, and the guy sighs. There is no time to stop now. When one stupid teenager comes to him — that's still a mystery, and therefore it's better to hurry. George walks down the street, listening to the crunch of snow under his feet, and the noise of cars on the highway that passes very close to his neighborhood. All the dirt of the streets was covered with white snow, and George suddenly thought that everything was not even as bad as it seemed to him. All the drug addicts and drunks, as if afraid of the cold and light, huddled in their homes, tightly closing the curtains on the windows. And this area, empty and quiet, covered with fluffy snow, the guy liked much more. He looks so calm and sleepy. So ... right.

The house is quiet and warm. As usual. But now, after a morning walk, everything feels so strange and magical that the guy smiles. What? Who the hell knows. He just smiles like a fool when he puts the groceries in the refrigerator, and then sits cross-legged in the computer chair, pulling out his phone. I don't care what he wanted to eat. The frost seems to have knocked the last of my brains out of my head. There was no other explanation for George allowing himself to sit and stare like a madman at the dialogue that had already been completed. But he felt so calm and right that he just reread the lines he had already written an hour ago, thinking about one thing that, admittedly, was starting to get a little stressful. Reflections and the inscription "NighTMAre is typing a message..." quickly brought out of the blissful state and the guy sighed, waiting for a new message with a strange trepidation, to which, unfortunately or fortunately, he managed to get used to over the past week.

**NighTMAre:** Who did you talk to?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What do you mean?  
 **NighTMAre:** You were online, but didn't write

George snorts, biting into a cookie. Oh, how, it is clear that he is not the only one who has developed the habit of checking when the interlocutor was last online for these half a month. The guy squints at the window, but the street is still quiet and empty, which means that Tommy is not coming yet and will probably arrive only in the evening.

**NicknameNotFound:** One friend wrote. He said we should meet.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** In the evening, most likely, I will not be online.  
 **NighTMAre:** Leaving me for some guy? (  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What...? This is a sixteen-year-old teenager, what kind of man is there?  
 **NighTMAre:** an underage man is also a man  
 **NighTMAre:** "Pimpinnit", wow. So grown-up  
 **NighTMAre:** I take back my words about the man  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Checked the list of my friends?

George sighs, turning on the computer. While there is time — it will be nice to have a little distraction, spending an hour or two on games, but one well-known hosting. While the miracle of technology, buzzing and swearing at the owner, starts, he returns his attention to the mobile phone.

**NighTMAre:** yeah)  
 **NighTMAre:** why is he coming to you? Looking for employees? I'm ready, if anything, to pay you more-refuse.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Are you an idiot?..  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Stop it.  
 **NighTMAre:** :)

The guy pauses for a second, as if considering what he wants at all. The silence in the room begins to oppress me, so much so that my temples begin to ache. In order to somehow brighten up his partial loneliness, George takes the mouse in his hand, clicking the cursor on the folder with the music pumped up once upon a time. The speakers crackle, struggling, but they do turn on some familiar song that George, not having heard the lyrics, can't remember. However, he leans back in his chair, just enjoying the melody. The phone vibrates in my hand as usual.

**NighTMAre:** It's fun, right?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What are you talking about?

George stares blankly at the display as the other person writes a reply message.

**NighTMAre:** well, the fact that we're communicating. Judge for yourself. We are complete strangers to each other. You in general, most likely, because of the first messages me dick understand who you think. But you're writing to me. And I'm writing to you. It's funny, isn't it?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You sometimes write very strange things.  
 **NighTMAre:** and you answer, thereby forcing me to write you more strange things  
 **NighTMAre:** Which one of us is still weird? NicknameNotFound: You're either a drug addict or a philosopher. And I don't even know what's worse…  
 **NighTMAre:** you didn't guess)  
 **NighTMAre:** a bit of a programmer, a bit of a designer)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** About how. So this smiley face on a yellow background from your avatar is a manifestation of your "design"?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I will definitely write it down in my list of "what I know about Nightmer, in addition to his nickname".  
 **NighTMAre:** yellow background? It's green  
 **NighTMAre:** Do you really have such a list? And how many points?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Now two.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** The first point was "he never sleeps and is always online"  
 **NighTMAre:** free schedule and work from home, that's all

George smiles, ruffling his hair, and thinks that he should really have a list like this. Or, at least, a piece of paper — more space for information is not needed. The guy sometimes felt like a sponge, absorbing any information that his interlocutor shared with him. It was disastrously small, which, however, did not interfere with the brunette — even on the contrary. This created a certain mystery around this person, forcing the guy to write to him more and more often, to look for answers to questions about him more and more carefully, reading the letters over and over again in search of new clues.

**NighTMAre:** what are you doing?

The guy looks at the empty computer screen with the music player turned on, at the speakers that are shaking a little from the music, and shrugs, but realizing that the other person will hardly be able to see his answer, he takes up the keyboard.

**NicknameNotFound:** Sitting, waiting for Tommy, listening to music, talking to you. Everything is very boring.

**NighTMAre:** hmm. Will you send me your picture?

George snorts, quickly licking his lips.

**NicknameNotFound:** What about my profile picture?  
 **NighTMAre:** well, it will be different  
 **NighTMAre:** please?

George thnks for a second about whether to do it or not, and then he thinks about what he's going to lose from one photo. Deciding that it's nothing — he puts his fingers in front of the monitor with a "V", quickly snapping the camera. The face in the photo, of course, does not fall, only a small part of the reflection on the glossy surface of the screen. The guy is very unusual to do this, and therefore he is afraid that his hands will shake too much and the picture will turn out blurry, but it's not so bad. At least-the name of the group is visible if you look closely. The photo is sent to the recipient and George thinks that it would be worth removing the trash from the table, rather than sending it all to the interlocutor, but it's too late to delete the photo — it turns out to be viewed almost instantly. Nightmer is silent for about two minutes, during which the brunette manages to go crazy with worry about what he did wrong, before a notification appears on the screen that the interlocutor writes something to him.

Heck. And here it is again. Why the fuck is he doing this, listening to a complete stranger? Why would he do that? Why is he nervously smoothing his hair as he leans back in his chair and tries to adjust the camera? Why is he waiting for a reaction as if it were a verdict? This time the silence lasts even longer than the first time. Nightmer doesn't answer the photo for about five minutes. George even manages to go to the kitchen and put the kettle on to make himself a cup of tea, and the other person is still silent. And when a guy starts to worry if he did something wrong, he gets the long-awaited answer:

**NighTMAre:** You have such pale skin…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It's because of the lighting.  
 **NighTMAre:** Yeah?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why did you need my photo?  
 **NighTMAre:** simple. I wanted to see you.  
 **NighTMAre:** You look so fucking good, did you know that?

_Shit._

*******

The doorbell rings painfully on the eardrums of the guy who has already forgotten about Tommy and his visit, immersed in the game world with his head. Yes, he even did not care about the vibrations in the phone — not before that, he will answer later. So the guy got up from his usual place and went to open the door as if he was being led to hard labor. Just as slowly, wanting to delay the moment, reluctantly moving his feet. The blond guy smiles, cocking his head to the side. And George wants to smile back at him, but he can't do it, too embarrassed by the fact that Tommy didn't come alone.

\- It's been a long time, will you let me pass, or will you make me explain myself on the threshold? - The guy smiles brightly, but a bad feeling still comes over George and for a second he even forgets how to breathe, so he just nods, stepping aside and letting the guests pass.

The kitchen is cool — the window was opened half an hour ago to air out the room, and then George successfully forgot about it. However, no one pays attention to this. Everyone, including Tommy, who tries to appear carefree, is tense to the limit. George takes a can of soda from the refrigerator and pushes it toward the blond man, who nods gratefully, instantly opening the metal jar and taking a sip of the sizzling drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs, starting the conversation he came to talk about.

\- So… This is Willbur, George. This is one of my good friends, " the guy sitting a little further away snorts as he unbuttons his coat-it's scary to imagine how hot it must be, considering that he's also wearing a sweater under it. He raises his hand in a gesture of greeting, smiling out of the corner of his mouth.

— And what is it? George leans back in his hard chair, glancing nervously from one customer to the other. — What kind of plan is it that you need my help?"

— All items we, you know, can not tell, but the main objective is the displacement of Shlatt as President. Preferably without bloodshed — " the guy looks at George as incredulously as George looks at him. Only for Wilbur, the situation is much more tense. If George refused to cooperate, all the information could be leaked to the authorities, which would put an end to both Tommy and Willbur and their grandiose plans. And everyone understands this very well. Tommy nervously takes another sip of the drink, squeezing his hand so hard that I can, spilling the drink all over himself. George only glances at the picture, turning away instantly. Not before that…

— Why me?" A natural question, answered by Tommy, who is still trying to wipe the sticky coke stains off his favorite T-shirt, over which he was wearing a jacket.

"I believe you," the blond man shrugs, as if it's a matter of course. — You don't like all the shit that's going on in the city, so why the fuck do we keep sitting around like mice in holes, afraid to say something?"

"Don't swear," George says automatically, and the teenager makes a face like he's got a whole lemon in his mouth.

George gets up from his chair and goes to the window, which he has not yet closed, breathing in the cold air with difficulty. My head is spinning, and common sense, waving a greeting pen, tells me that this is a VERY bad idea. Even worse than chatting with a strange guy on social media without knowing anything about him.

"Don't start! I've heard you tell me since I was ten that I shouldn't swear. The right fucking one, " Tommy hisses, and Willbur snorts into his fist, but quickly turns serious again.

— In short, we need a temporary shelter. Half a month-a month at most — George wants to object, but the other person immediately interrupts him, raising his hand, thereby calling for silence. — That doesn't mean we'll be in your house twenty-four hours a day. We just need to have a place to go if we have to. Your house is a good distance from the center, and there are a lot of people here. They won't find us here, because we don't have any connections, and I doubt that the police will check the house of a guy who sat with one of the revolutionaries when he was little.

— I need at least some details. If there aren't any, I'm sorry, " George sighs, looking at the guy. — If there are none, then my answer is obvious. I have to have a rough idea of what I'm signing up for.

"Don't start! I've heard you tell me since I was ten that I shouldn't swear. The right fucking one, " Tommy hisses, and Willbur snorts into his fist, but quickly turns serious again.

— In short, we need a temporary shelter. Half a month-a month at most — George wants to object, but the other person immediately interrupts him, raising his hand, thereby calling for silence. — That doesn't mean we'll be in your house twenty-four hours a day. We just need to have a place to go if we have to. Your house is a good distance from the center, and there are a lot of people here. They won't find us here, because we don't have any connections, and I doubt that the police will check the house of a guy who sat with one of the revolutionaries when he was little.

— I need at least some details. If there aren't any, I'm sorry, " George sighs, looking at the guy. — If there are none, then my answer is obvious. I have to have a rough idea of what I'm signing up for.

George gets up from his chair and goes to the window, which he has not yet closed, breathing in the cold air with difficulty. My head is spinning, and common sense, waving a greeting pen, tells me that this is a VERY bad idea. Even worse than chatting with a strange guy on social media without knowing anything about him.

\- Okay, yeah. I understand. In short, our man is now in the service of Shlaton, who is closely monitoring what is happening inside the governing bodies. Our job is to undermine as many organizations as possible by recruiting people, that's all. Then we surround the president with our own people and organize a trap, forcing him to sign a paper where he renounces power. We don't need blood and violence, " Willbur says quickly, trying to convince George as quickly as possible by throwing the plan at him. Not all of it, of course, but most of it. If George refuses now…

The guy looks at Tommy, nervously waiting for his decision, and doesn't know what to think. My hands involuntarily clench into fists. Tommy shouldn't be part of this, he's just a fucking kid. He shouldn't be ruining his life so early. But George could see that the blond man's eyes were filled with reckless determination, and therefore trying to convince the teenager to abandon their beautiful plan, in his opinion, would be futile. George exhales, turning away from the guests and staring blankly at the wall.

"Tommy, come out, please." The teenager is about to protest, but Willbur's raised hand instantly stops him, and he walks out, his eyes flashing with annoyance. George exhales heavily.

— So my verdict is that there will be blood. It doesn't matter if it's big or small. It will spill. Either theirs or yours. And I know very well that you didn't choose Tommy because of his beliefs or aspirations, okay?

"I chose him because he wants to change the world, not sit in a corner, that's all," Willbur shrugs indifferently, getting up from his chair and leaning his back against the wall. George swallows hard — a pose that looks pointedly menacing.

— You chose him because he's a teenager. A teenager who believes in himself and dreams of becoming a hero for the city, " the guy hisses irritably, gritting his teeth with impotent anger.

\- It's not…

"But I also know," George interrupts, looking up and looking him straight in the eye. — I also know that I can't convince him to give up this suicidal idea. I don't know who put it in his head: you, someone higher than you, movies or comics-it doesn't matter. The fact remains. And I know perfectly well that I can't just say no to him right now. Do you understand why?

Wilbur snorts, his eyes narrowed in a predatory way.

— Because you want to make sure he doesn't do something even more stupid?"

— That's one of the reasons. The second reason is that I want him to be safe somewhere, and since you've taken it away from him, I'll have to take it on myself. I can't let him be out there with someone if he's being hunted. My family had a country house. If anything happens, I can take you there, but it's a last resort.

"How nice, taking care of him?" Willbur snorts, hands balled into fists in his pockets.

— Well, someone has to take care of him if you don't care about him, right?" George chuckles, and Willbur looks grim, but holds out his hand for a handshake, which the boy responds to. The deal is done. "Well, now my home is your home. Would you like some scones?

*******

**NighTMAre:** hey, are you going to the festival in a week?  
 **NighTMAre:** well, the one in the main square  
 **NighTMAre:** I just didn't ask, and here it is…  
 **NighTMAre:** are you there?  
 **NighTMAre:** hey  
 **NighTMAre:** ah, that friend came?  
 **NighTMAre:** oops, I forgot, I'm sorry. Write me when you're free

George turns off the screen of his cell phone, burying his hands in his hair, and clutches his head, which has been aching all evening — since Willbur and Tommy left his house, saying that if anything happens, they will write. George is not sure if he did the right thing today. I'm not sure I can do anything to keep a stupid, hot-tempered teenager from dying in a prison cell. He opens the correspondence a couple of times, but immediately closes it, not knowing what to write, how to explain. It's too complicated. But Nightmer writes first, as if sensing his doubts. Writes, and sees how his message becomes instantly read.

**NighTMAre:** Where are you? Alive?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Can I complain? I don't know if I did the right thing, and I need to talk it out.  
 **NighTMAre:** Wow, is it that bad?  
 **NighTMAre:** Well, go ahead of course

George exhales heavily, and his fingers are already tapping on the keyboard, typing out a message.

**NicknameNotFound:** Tommy got involved with bad company. Not sure how much, but bad. And the person with whom he is connected, turns it around as he wants, because he is a stupid teenager who naively believes that he can, if he wants, change the world. But no. That's not how it works. I'm afraid that the person he contacted will cause him a lot of problems, but I understand that I can't do anything, so I had to let them come to my house if anything happens.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I literally let them hide from the police, if anything, in my house, you know? I just have to protect him somehow, and there's no other way. And the fact that I'm breaking the law is very stressful for me. I'm just ... a criminal, right?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why is everything so difficult?  
 **NighTMAre:** You know, Lmanburg is a city where the police are more likely to go after good people than bad ones. If they're being hunted, maybe they're doing the right thing?  
 **NighTMAre:** You say he's a stupid teenager. But he's not a child. He's already a person, you know?  
 **NighTMAre:** Just make sure that he doesn't cross the line by following that person's wishes, and I think everything will be fine.  
 **NighTMAre:** Sorry, I don't know how to support people (  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You know, it helped me.  
 **NighTMAre:** :)  
 **NighTMAre:** everything will be fine, I guarantee)

_Everything will be fine_


	4. Chapter 4

Blade walks from side to side in exasperation, so fast that his eyes begin to ripple. He's been on edge for a month or more, and the closer he gets to X-day, the more excited he gets, and the more often he snaps at his accomplices.

— If we don't get it done this week, the whole plan will go down the drain. All the preparations, all the work done. Everything will be lost.

Techno pulls the mask off his face, breathing heavily in the stale air. Fuck. He's honestly trying not to show how nervous he is, so he puts his hands on the countertop and almost snarls with rage, biting through his lip, blood from which instantly fills his mouth and flows down his chin in a bright red trickle, getting on his shirt and staining it too. But how deliciously everyone doesn't care about that right now. They don't give a damn about the body of the former owner of the house, which is now decomposing in the ground in the backyard with a couple of bullet wounds. They don't care. Almost.

Wilbur, who has just entered the living room from the street, quickly brushes the snowflakes off his coat, unbuttoning it and sitting down in the chair he has grown fond of for several days in the house, watching Blade closely. The fact that he was in such a shitty mood was not a good thing. However, there were reasons for this, the main one being a categorical lack of time. The plan they had been working on for two months was bursting at the seams. Shlatt was not a complete idiot, surrounding himself with only proven people, and in such numbers that it was impossible to remove them all at once. So the fact that some kid offered to share information from the enemy camp for free just because of his long friendship with Tommy was a real salvation.

The room is too hot and disgusting, which makes it difficult for Willbre not just to be there-it's hard to breathe, and his eyes sting unpleasantly, as if something not very pleasant has been sprayed around the room, eating those inside it. Or is it the people in the building? The guy ruffles his hair in a familiar gesture, and Blade grins before continuing his fiery speech.

-"It's one of two things — either we slap this asshole with one punch, or.." - Blade clenches his fists in exasperation. - "Or all our efforts will go to the fucking gutter."

Wilbur sighs before speaking.

-"Calm down. I am sure that everything will go well, we are armed, our people are inside the organization. Communication around the city will be cut off during Schlatt's speech, there should be no problems with this."

-"No problem, really? Have you even seen the security list? What the hell are thirty guards for one person?! And he hires them at the very last moment. Can't you see what's going on, Will? Even if they don't suspect what we're up to — they are preparing for the possibility that they can attack"- hisses the man in the face Willbur's and he shivers. Evil Blade is still a test for the psyche. However, surprisingly, it cools down quickly enough and exhales. —" We need to remove the guards within a week, but without anyone suspecting anything. How to do this, I, alas, have no idea. Now this task is a priority for us."

-"You're trying so hard, even though your goal is just to destroy Schlatt? Don't take it as an insult or anything, just curious," - Willbur crosses his legs, watching the other man closely.

—"My goal is to destroy this filth. The city is dying, and I sincerely feel sorry for the people who live in it. By removing the main infection, we will give it a future. If you do not cut off the extra branches of the tree, it will grow and die. Do you understand, Wilbur? You're a resident of L'manburg, you must understand that like no other.

— "I don't really understand why you're doing this, but... you're right. We have a week left, right?" - the guy snorts softly into his fist, and then, smiling, looks up at Blade, who is watching the guy closely. "We've got to do the best we can, haven't we?"

Blade nods back, grinning. And Wilbur, looking at it, asks the question — "is it worth it all? Does he need it all? Isn't it time to abandon the plan, to leave?  
"  
It's too late.

— "Should I inform you that there may be problems with the connection?" - a voice, full of indifference, comes from an old, battered sofa. Both men, momentarily oblivious to the third person on their team, turn sharply in the direction of the guy who was idly clicking on the laptop keyboard, not even bothering to turn his head in the direction of his colleagues.

-"What do you mean?" - Blade almost hisses, and the guy sighs, still turning away from the screen and looking in the direction of the bewildered men. This, I must admit, its amusing.

— "Oh, nothing important. It's just that some people cut the connection too often in order to "prepare", and in fact-just did not trust me. You know what that led to, huh? " - the guy in the green jacket continues to lie on the couch like a stuffed cat with a laptop on his belly. The mask is only slightly raised — the guy often suffers from a runny nose, and therefore prefers to breathe through his mouth when there is such an opportunity. And it wouldn't care, but this indifference kicks like blade and Fibra off. And while Will just stares at the guy in disbelief, waiting for an explanation, Blade gradually boils, like a kettle put on the fire. — "This led to them setting up several backup towers in the distance. And it is from them, if anything, that our esteemed president will receive information. Great fucking job, Techno.

— "So we won't be able to follow the original plan anyway?" - Willbur asks carefully, to make sure that they are in a very bad state.

-"The original one, I don't think so. However, the connection will be turned on in about three minutes, so we just need to act a little faster" — the guy shrugs, again looking at the screen.

-"A little faster?.. Three minutes and half an hour are two different things!" - Techno snarls, but he knows almost instantly that he can't get anything more out of the guy. He will continue to remain silent out of spite, so it is useless to try to do something. He sighs and rubs his temples, which are sore from the increased brain activity for many days. But there is no time for rest. In truth, they don't have time for anything else. We must act as quickly and actively as possible. Wilbur, as if reading the determination in Blade's eyes, nods, indicating that he agrees with Blade's indignation. But they no longer have a choice — they need to urgently decide what to do with both security and communications. One more problem. The guy in the green jacket, who was still lying calmly on the couch, not even bothering to take off his shoes, snorted, noticing the mute determination in the faces of his colleagues out of the corner of his eye. It seems to be fun.

**_***_ **

Wilbur repeatedly wondered if it was worth bringing this guy in, negotiating with him about something. Was it worth it to radically change your plan for the sake of some madman who does not put this very plan in anything? Only looks indifferently from under a fucking mask, but sticks to the Internet. But another question is also brewing — what would have happened if he had not come with him then, if he had refused to help? Would they have come this far, or would they have died in a ditch, messing with the wrong people?

Dream was weird. Very weird. Willbur soon realized that his goal was not to seize power or, I don't know, save the city. It was all terribly simple and, admittedly, frightening. His goal was to have fun. He was just a bored Internet programmer who somehow managed to find their plans for fun, and then personally unsubscribed the frightened brunette, offering to meet. Then both Techno and Willbur were sure that this was the end. Shlatt will win, and their correspondence will be merged, if not into the world wide web, then to law enforcement agencies — for sure. They went to the meeting as if to an execution. There was no point in running anymore, so they just clenched their fists in rage at being so fucked up. But he listened to them, and later offered to make a deal and discuss their plan, making adjustments both in the plan itself and in their defense, almost forcing the guys to change phones several times a week. Where Blade took the money was another question, but the equipment he regularly bought only for a couple of calls and messages, after which it was thrown out with a calm soul into some nearby pond. He was very careful not to write too much, but to talk in private, so when he admitted after a week of communication that he had accidentally almost told important details of the plan to a stranger, Blade didn't know whether to laugh or worry. However, the guy assured them that the correspondence was erased, and the stranger only wrote back that Dream had the wrong number.

Blade didn't trust him, looking askance and double-checking his every word a hundred times, which, in the case of the link, played a role. Several breakdowns during the week led to the fact that the protection of the towers became more active, and the reserve was improved. And Willbur knew this wasn't the time to play the boss. Not with this particular person. A man who can destroy both them and the entire city by pressing a single button. Willbur wished he hadn't brought him back. I was sorry, but I was glad that he agreed to cooperate. It was strange, but having someone like him was both a win and a loss. The plan worked flawlessly, but it could stop almost instantly — if Dream wanted it to. If Tom suddenly became uninterested in playing a boring game. Willbur felt like a puppet in the hands of a puppeteer, who would be thrown out if she tried to get out of the threads. Only here… I didn't want to get out. Dream didn't get tired of the game. What had not yet begun could not be bothered. And then, when Slaton fall, using Drim won't need more. Just to live…

**_***_ **

-"Cool coat, by the way"-Blade leans back against the wall and takes a sip of the coffee he made a few minutes ago when he calmed down a little. Wilbur smiles contentedly at the compliment to his new clothes. There must have been at least someone to notice.

-"Yeah, I liked it, too. It's fucking cold. It's never been so cold here. We even had snow-that's still a rarity. There was mud, dampness, and snow fell, but instantly melted. As a result — dampness and dirt. Brrr" — the guy winces at the memory. One of the most disgusting things is falling into a bloody puddle and trying unsuccessfully to wash your jacket afterwards. It seems that he will also have nightmares about it.

-"Yeah, nice coat. You look like an exhibitionist in it. We can put you in the plan to scare off some mothers with children," - Dream says casually, as if he didn't just shit on his friend, but told him about the weather for tomorrow. Techno chokes on his coffee, trying to hold back the laughter that bursts out, and Wilbur's eyes boil over.

-"You're an asshole! What the fuck?" - the blond shrugs, looking up from the screen for a moment.

\- Can you provide any new information?"

\- Ah, so the fact that you are not the most pleasant person is old information for you?" - Willbur snorts, crossing his legs and tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

\- "Tell me, please, which of us is a good person? Although.." - Dream shrugs and from under the raised mask, you can see how the guy smiles mockingly, looking in the direction of the interlocutor. — At least I didn't kill people like you did. Personally.

-"A dubious achievement, you know" - Blade snorts, and the guy just shrugs.

\- "Well, at least I'm not trying to justify myself as a ' great goal.' "

**_***_ **

The building reeks of alcohol and cigarettes and the smell left by the last owner can not be erased, despite the constantly open windows and the infernal frost in the rooms. Here it is. The wind hits the guy in the face when he goes out into the backyard late at night, exhaling heavily. What time is it? The light from the moon falls on the ground, illuminating a piece of loose earth-the grave of the owner of the house made in half an hour. You didn't have the best life, did you, buddy? I tried to cling to it with the last of my strength, but every fucking time I stumbled, I fell lower and lower. Your house is clean, even though you've littered it with the smell of cigarettes and booze that seems to be ingrained in the walls and furniture. You wanted to die, didn't you? You've written about it so many times, your drafts are full of suicide notes. You could say we even did you a favor, helped you, right? You didn't have time to feel anything when you were shot first in the chest, and then in the head. He only wheezed faintly.

_Fuck._

Dream exhales heavily, barely looking away from the makeshift grave of an unnamed user under the nickname "Gorghin133". He probably would have jumped off the roof if the guy hadn't found his account. From the roof of the office where he once worked and was fired. You were set up, right? The kind of girl that you have several years of put likes under each post? How much can you learn about a person just through the world wide web, huh? The guy clutches the phone in his hand, looking at the sprawling oak tree in the backyard, which has not been tended for many years. Looks, but doesn't see. The cell phone vibrates in his hand, but it's just a notification about a new record of some under-star that the guy once subscribed to a long time ago, and now he doesn't even remember who it is. He runs his eyes over the messages that have already accumulated a dozen from different people, but there is nothing from one already familiar account. Late, most likely, he is already asleep, but the guy still opens the dialog, flipping back a day and instantly find the same photo that the guy sent him. Just took it and sent it, smiling awkwardly at the camera lens. He just showed me a damn thin neck, protruding collarbones, arms with slightly protruding veins. And, admittedly, it blew the blond's mind to hell. What the fuck? It's just a random guy with a blank profile that they've only been talking to for half a month. Why the fuck did this guy bring him to a state of shock just by throwing off his picture?

He pauses again, looking at him. Feels completely gone, but continues to carefully examine the ill-fated photo. And he don't care that he's standing in the backyard at night near the hole in which the man is buried. He don't care if there's a tense debate going on in the kitchen right now between two assholes who can't figure out how to overthrow the president. I don't care even more than before. Attachment to a stranger is frightening. He doesn't even know his name, so what the fuck? But the fingers, reluctantly closing the photo, are already quickly poking at the keyboard, habitually typing a new message.

 **NighTMAre:** Are you asleep?

Shipped. Time passes, and there is still no answer, when suddenly ... it is read. The guy chuckles. When will he learn to go to bed on time?

**NicknameNotFound:** No, I made myself some tea. What happened?  
**NighTMAre:** aren't you tired of tea yourself?  
**NicknameNotFound:** Don't count in it)  
**NighTMAre:** I don't really count on it  
**NighTMAre:** i'm not going to the festival, they refused to let me cross the border  
**NighTMAre:** i can't meet you, I'm sorry,  
**NicknameNotFound:** Oh… 

Dream clutches the phone so tightly in his hand that he wonders how it still works without shattering into pieces of glass and metal.

 **NicknameNotFound:** Well, nothing. It is clear that they will not be allowed to cross the border so easily now. Then maybe someday you'll come.  
**NighTMAre:** :)  
**NighTMAre:** so will you go to the festival?  
**NicknameNotFound:** Yeah, I guess. I'll have to go with Tommy, he asked me to. So I guess I don't have a choice, huh?

What did you expect, you idiot?»

Dream exhales hard, cold air, blocking the phone. He just stares off into the distance, completely oblivious to what he sees. He thinks, clutching the phone in his pocket in his hand. But there are no thoughts. However, do you need them? Should he deviate from the exact plan just for the sake of some boy with a good appearance? He should have been thrown into an emergency and forgotten like a bad dream, but fuck it. Horseradish floated there, the temptation to write again is too strong, to make a sign about yourself again. And it's so disgusting that Dream feels like a weakling because of some guy from the Internet. He sighs. It's time to go back.

-"Blade, about security," the blond man walks into the room, slamming the door so hard that everyone in the room jumps in surprise. — "I have an idea about that. But there will be dirt, I warn you right away.  
"  
-"Wow, that sounds interesting," - Techno snorts and takes another sip. Did you make more coffee so you can stay up all night? fucking enthusiast. - "Tell me."

-"I can't tell you exactly, I haven't thought it all out myself, but... we'll need money for a restaurant and maybe some ricin. That won't be a problem, will it?"

Blade nods, saying he'll get the money, and Wilbur looks intrigued as the blond man exhales and begins to recount the plan that has matured in his head.

 **NighTMAre:** forgot to write, by the way  
**NighTMAre:** good night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 400 likes, what the fuck are you doing?   
> I'm very happy")


	5. Chapter 5

**Pimpinnit:** HELLOOO

 **Pimpinnit:** HEY

 **Pimpinnit:** Are you there?

 **Pimpinnit:** No, not like that. Are you at home?

**Pimpinnit:** Can we come in?

George, who has just arrived home, exhales, clutching his mobile phone in his hands. Here it is. It had only been a day since Tommy had barged into his house with someone he didn't know. They didn't touch him on Monday, as if they were giving him twenty-four hours to get used to the idea of what he was getting himself into. Even Nightmer hardly wrote, and that under-dialogue, I must admit, was not particularly happy. If George understood Wilbur's rough plan correctly, the festival was supposed to be the first point of reference before Schlatt's fall. First strike. And the fact that there would be a chance to at least meet a friend from the correspondence, I must admit, gave strength. So the fact that Knightmere was not allowed on the grounds was very disappointing to George. The guy looks askance at the display, where new messages from Tommy flash by, and sighs. It's too late to retreat, isn't it? You can't let someone twist Tommy around as he pleases. He pauses before writing just two letters:

**NicknameNotFound:** Оk

*******

Tommy didn't come alone, and that was what George had expected. I don't think Wilbur is even moving away from the guy, blowing the hell out of his mind with his ideas. But the fact that there will be three guests, to be honest, he did not expect. Tommy, who had stormed into the house like a small hurricane, did not look frightened or alarmed by what was happening and what was about to happen. It was as if what he'd told her the day before was just a recipe for a new pie. If only! Wilbur, who had followed, was also as calm as a boa constrictor, only nodding in greeting to his host, his hands in his deep pockets. But the third guest, who was biting his lip, was clearly worried as he entered the house, quickly scanning both the empty street and George, who was looking at the nervous boy with surprise. However, the thought flashed through his mind that he had already seen this guy somewhere. A boyfriend? It's just a fucking word from the guy. A teenager like Tommy. The blond man was older than the dark one, who had taken off his jacket and was fidgeting with it.

-"Yeah, well, what a neighborhood you have, George" - Managing to pull off his jacket without even unbuttoning it, Tommy unceremoniously snatched a piece of the wardrobe from the confused guy and hung it on a hanger near the door. — "Some jerk bothered us, something demanded."

\- "And what?" - George raised his eyebrows at the blond man, but answered after a chuckle from Willbur.

-"You don't know how people change when they see brass knuckles, my friend," - George wincing at either the voice or the words. On one of the hands that Wilbur pulled out of his pockets, the metal rim of a brass knuckle-duster glistens.

-"They're kind of banned, aren't they?"

-"Overthrowing the government isn't the most legitimate thing either, by the way," -Tommy snorts, grabbing the guy who's frozen in the doorway and dragging him toward the kitchen. - "Stop standing there like a pillar, Tubbo. Let's go. Both of you, too. You, like, need to introduce"

-"After you," Willbur snorts, making a sort of bow, seeming amused by George's efforts to avoid him as much as possible.

The brunette sighs. During the day, he hadn't come to terms with the fact that he was involved in some illegal activity. Activities that will most likely land him behind bars. It takes weeks or even months to get used to the idea that you will help (even indirectly) to overthrow the government. And also, preferably, a little bit of madness or, as in Tommy's case, youthful maximalism, which pushed the teenager from extreme to extreme. And what did it lead to in the end?

*******

The kitchen is cool. George, frankly, has no idea why it's always cold out there. The batteries seemed to have deliberately decided not to work there, saying: "be content with what you have, master." Just amazing! The electric kettle, placed just before the arrival of the guests (albeit invited, but not very welcome), was already boiling. George is genuinely surprised to learn that he has more than one cup. Not even two or three. It had been a long time since he'd been in the crockery drawer. A strange guy, who has been sitting modestly on a chair, hesitantly offers to help, and George nods gratefully as he begins to pour boiling water over the tea bags. At least someone, and thank you for that. There is nothing special for tea, except for the cookies that George successfully forgot about last time and which are instantly appreciated by Tommy and his friends. However, it is not surprising. George snorts softly into his fist, and Tommy, as if realizing what the dark-haired man is thinking, glares at him, continuing to chew furiously.

-"So, meet Tubbo. The same guy in Schlatt's service who decided to help us "— Willbur, as if realizing that no one was going to introduce himself to anyone, put this duty on himself. The guy in response to the performance somehow nervously smiles, slightly tilting his head to the side.

-"Wait, I've seen you a couple of times at various conferences," - George finally remembers where he saw the kid. Tubbo nods, taking another sip of tea and seeming to burn his tongue at his own haste. - "You're so young. How did you get there?"

-"Yeah? but.." - Tommy tries to answer for the guy, but Tubbo sighs and puts his hand over Tommy's mouth.

\- "Let me have a word to say something! I feel like I don't know who," - the blond man snorts resentfully, but falls silent, starting to rock defiantly in his chair." - In general, nothing complicated. Simply… Studied? Olympics, competitions, that's what the top noticed in the end.

-"Well, the top noticed you, you know," - George snorts softly, watching as Tommy almost falls backwards with the chair, leaning too far back.

-"Well ... yes… Anyway, it was interesting at first, and then,"- the guy shrugs weakly, pursing his lips. - "I sat and watched them all ready to tear each other's throats for higher places. It's disgusting"

-"Is that why you went to the meeting with them?" - George nodded toward Tommy and Willbur, who, unlike the teenager, was not trying to get into the conversation at all, just sticking to the new phone.

-"Well, Tommy's been a friend of mine since junior high, so when he offered to help, I agreed. Besides, the company is falling apart, and therefore it's suicide to stay there, and... I don't want to, " - the guy nervously clutches a mug in his hands, and George realizes that he doesn't really want to discuss this topic, and therefore tries to turn the conversation into a more neutral channel.

"Why are you —" George doesn't have time to change the subject, because Tommy does it perfectly, collapsing with the chair on the floor. Then things start to unfold so quickly that the owner of the house does not even have time to understand what the hell is going on. First comes a long-drawn-out "Fu-u-uck!" from the floor, then an equally quiet laugh from both Tubbo and Willbur, and, admittedly, from George, who honestly tried to hide it behind a violent coughing fit. Then, from the side where the teenager fell, a towel flew at the laughing people, which, apparently, Tommy grabbed during the fall. Needless to say, the rag didn't save him?

-"Stop laughing! Better help, jackals" - there is a strange sound, like the sound of a blow, and George nervously looks to where the teenager is sitting, and Willbur, who is closest, quickly reacts and takes the chair from the angry and blushing (either from anger or shame) teenager, which he decided to beat up in order to prove his superiority over the stupid furniture that decided to set him up.

-"You'll break the chair, you idiot, stop it." - Tubbo takes the poor chair from Willbur and puts it next to his own, and a second later a disgruntled Tommy sits on it, glaring at everyone present in turn.

\- "Didn't your parents teach you not to swing in a chair?" - Tubbo snorts, the smile still lingering on his face because of the prolonged laughter.

-"Do you know where those cookies of yours will end up if you don't shut up now?" - The teenager grumbles irritably, putting his elbows on the table and propping his head in his hands.

\- "Okay okay, I'm silent."

George is surprised to think that this company is, in a way, even pleasant to him.

*******

-"Let's go outside," - Tommy suddenly says after a few minutes, who seems tired of sulking at the chair that so viciously decided to teach him a lesson.

\- "No need, it's already dark, and not the most respectable citizens in our area are a dime a dozen." - George, who had recovered from the attempt on the life of innocent furniture, visibly cheered up. Even the lightning bolts he'd thrown at Willbur, who'd dragged the teenagers into whatever it was, had gradually turned into mere sparks of discontent when the dark-haired man realized that it would be impossible to change anyone's mind.

— "As they dragged me away, so they'll drag me back. We can even demand money to take it back. We'll make some money, too" - Tubbo snorts, which almost gets him knocked to the floor by Tommy, who kicks the chair leg hard enough. "Hey! What a great plan!

-"I agree," Willbur says, buttoning his coat.- And for a walk, and for Tommy's sale. Or rather, rather, the purchase, only we will be paid."

Tubbo nods, also agreeing with the idea, and George sighs and shakes his head, which gets surprised looks from three pairs of eyes.

-"Come on, let's go. It will be fun!" - Tommy quickly grabs the guy's arm, causing him to almost fall to the unfortunate floor, which was abruptly lifted from the chair. Why the fuck had the boy become so strong in just two years?

— "I know how you walk. And how fun it is for all the people around you — " the guy exhales and rubs his aching temples. Too many emotions in a day. Too much. — "Besides, I don't have any winter clothes right now. I planned to buy it this weekend, but apparently not fate."

-"Yeah, we'll have more fun plans this weekend," - Willbur snorts, leaning back against the wall, Tommy tilting his head slightly to the side.

— "Why don't we go shopping tomorrow, since you have to go to the store anyway?" - George sighs.

— "I kind of have a job…"

-"Don't give a fuck. You're not going to get much rest on the weekend, so why don't you take the day off? - the blond man snorts. "I'm sure you won't get anything out of it."

\- I don't…

-"Besides, we're kind of going to overthrow the dictator this weekend, you're obviously not going to be shopping," - Tommy's tone is flat, and it's funny enough to hear it like that.

-"Well, personally, I don't think you're going to have a lot of problems with just one truancy," - Tubbo interjects, noticing that George is considering the offer. He sighs resignedly, these are the damn kids.

-"Okay, okay, but this is the first and last time," - Willbur snorts, watching as the teenagers, happy that the brunette has agreed to go shopping, come out of the kitchen, and some light-hearted chatter comes from the hallway

\- "Let's go" - Willbur suddenly grabs the boy by the shoulder and drags him into the hallway. — "You think too much, you need to clear your head."

  
George doesn't try to resist, knowing that no matter how much of an asshole this guy is, he's right at this particular moment. He urgently needs fresh air.

*******

It was dark, Friday, which falls on the full moon, had not yet come, and, as you know, it was then that the lights on his street worked. However, neither he nor his companions seem to be afraid of anything. They are no longer afraid. George calmed down about the time when all the dirt that usually lives in the back streets at night suddenly quickly crawled back into their holes. And she got there because of one blond jerk who, noticing some movement in a dark alley, with a battle cry rushed there, grabbing snow on the move and throwing it at the frightened drug addicts and drunks who did not even have time to figure out where this shelling was coming from. Some of them even tried to explain to Tommy (using brute force) that this was not the right thing to do, but Willbur, who defiantly put brass knuckles on his fingers, described quite vividly what would happen to them if they tried to touch the teenager with even a finger. Tubbo, who was standing off to the side, didn't know whether to laugh or panic, and George (for the umpteenth time that day) was convinced that he had contacted a group of crazy people. "You're not better them. You communicate with someone who is not clear, you get involved in something that is not clear. Very adequate and, most importantly, thoughtful actions. You're either crazy or not very smart. What do you like better?", - the sarcastic voice of common sense rang in my head. Shushing his developing schizophrenia, George rushed to separate the boys. He didn't need a fight with drunks. These two will leave, and the brunette will still live there and go home in the evening in pitch darkness.

Poor addicts, apparently afraid of such active actions on the part of a strange teenager, hid in their homes and told about the inadequate blonde and a guy in a coat and with brass knuckles to their friends-comrades, saying that today it is better not to go out on the street, you never know. So it was probably the first time George felt safe on the street, walking through the empty city and listening to the chatter of his fellow passengers. Where were they going? I don't know. It was just a wild desire to stretch his legs, despite the cold that penetrated through the autumn jacket and the body that begged the owner to leave this strange trio to their fate and go home as quickly as possible. As usual, the phone vibrates in your pocket, displaying a notification about a bunch of unread messages. Damn it! George takes it out in an instant, quickly running his eyes over the new lines that he forgot to read after he got home from work. Tommy looks surprised at the rush to unread messages, and then sneers insidiously.

**NighTMAre:** are you home?  
 **NighTMAre:** or not yet?  
 **NighTMAre:** you usually leave work at this time, so what's going on?  
 **NighTMAre:** answer  
 **NighTMAre:** you've been online recently  
 **NighTMAre:** fuck  
 **NighTMAre:** where are you, asshole  
 **NighTMAre:** I'm worried  
 **NighTMAre:** answer

Shit…

**NicknameNotFound:** I'm Sorry.

George watches in surprise as the gray "offline" icon instantly turns green as soon as the guy sends a message, which immediately turns out to be read. Was he ... waiting? Something burns pleasantly inside him when he thinks that the other person is really waiting, like George himself, for a new message.

**NicknameNotFound:** My friends came to me almost as soon as I got home, I didn't want to make you worry.

-"Was he really worried?" - the guy thinks tensely, biting his lip and looking at the screen, so that Tubbo even has to pull the guy to the side so that he does not crash into a non-working lamppost.

**NicknameNotFound:** Sorry again.  
 **NighTMAre:** nothing to worry about  
 **NighTMAre:** you were just saying that your neighborhood isn't so good, so I got excited  
 **NighTMAre:** you never know what happened  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Actually, I'm outside right now. Friends pulled out for a walk.  
 **NighTMAre:** it's already dark  
 **NighTMAre:** be careful  
 **NicknameNotFound:** We scared away all the addicts)

— "What?" - George raises his head and looks in surprise at Tommy, who is watching him with a smirk.

— "Who do you correspond with, hero-lover?" - The guy snorts, and George flushes like a poppy

-What?

\- "Well, you look at the phone for five minutes and smile. Does the girl write?" - Willbur asks, and George shakes his head vigorously.

-No, just a friend.

-"A friend?" It's even more interesting," - Tommy whistles, and George is ready to whine, either from shame or from the stupidity of these two jerks.

\- "Yes, leave me alone, it's just a friend from the Internet, nothing more" - the guy tries to push away the blonde, who is already persistently climbing to him, planning, apparently, to snatch the phone out of his hands. George reads the new message briefly, already on the run, as he rushes toward the house. Tommy runs after him, followed by Willbur, his eyes gleaming with amusement, and Tubbo, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

**NighTMAre:** what, your friends are so scary and dangerous?)

George makes a sharp turn, still holding the phone in his hands, towards a courtyard, instantly finding himself knee-deep in snowdrifts, but continuing to run insistently into the depths, hearing behind him the screams of one half-wit, until…

-"Fuck," - the guy curses, unable to contain himself, as the blond guy pushes him hard into a snowdrift, laughing merrily, and George falls into the snow, instantly wet as if he's been pushed into a lake, and his body starts to shake, while one of the jerks roars with laughter, jumping around.

-"Tommy, motherfucker!" - the guy stands up, trying to shake himself off and clutching his cell phone. — "I'm all wet now. That's exactly why I didn't want to go with you, I knew that you would end up either throwing snow by the scruff of the neck or pushing me somewhere."

In the distance, Tubbo and Willbur laugh as they approach, and George, shaking off the snow, suddenly drops the phone, which slips out of his wet hand and, imitating the owner, also flies into the snowdrift. There! George prays to all the gods known to mankind, so that he does not break or turn off from excessive moisture, but he works, apparently fucking from the number of prayers that the guy said and decided to live longer in order to replenish his vocabulary. The guy, satisfied with the inspection, quickly puts it in his pocket, without even looking at the correspondence. His body is shivering madly from the cold and George even feels that he is about to turn into an icicle, so quickly, without turning around, he runs home, cursing Tommy in his mind-just in case this will work. But no, the four of them make it home in full force, and Tommy hasn't even turned into the cockroach George asked for. Either there are no gods after all and this is an accident, or George has run out of wishes or mana to perform various magic pieces.

*******

It was dark outside, and it would be sacrilege to turn out guests as wet as he was (with the exception of Willbur, who was dodging Tommy's snowballs). Even if he really wanted to. But George felt sorry for the two teenagers, who were as wet as stray puppies, huddled together in the hallway, trying to get some warmth and breath after a long run. So it was decided to pour the guests another cup of tea and send the teenagers to the living room to push the old, battered sofa, giving (albeit reluctantly) the remaining cookies.

Willbur looks pleased, too, like a cat who has stolen a fish in the market somewhere. She takes a lazy sip of tea while flipping through the tape, but when she sees George's intense gaze on her, she sighs and puts her cell phone (brand new, judging by its condition) in her pocket.

— What? Are you going to blame me for manipulating teenagers again? he raises an indifferent eyebrow, grinning.

-"That, too. What's happening? Why are you so calm about all this? Aren't you supposed to, I don't know, sit in a hole and work out a plan with those two?" - George looks tense and suspicious. And Willbur doesn't like it at all.

-"The plan is ready. And you kind of heard it the day before yesterday, so what the fuck?" - Willbur sighs, raising his hands in the air and holding them out for silence.

-"Listen, George. The plan is already ready and waiting for implementation, only small details remain. We will have a demonstration of our strength at the festival on Sunday. This will be the first strike. People who don't want to see Schlatt in the chair will come to us. There would be more and more of them, and he would have no choice but to leave. Relax. Everything will be fine, I'm sure" - Willbur smiles wryly and continues after a short pause. — "I don't want those two to get hurt, but let them decide what's good for them and what's not. They are not children. And, especially, not your children. Stop running after them like a mother hen. Let them... live."

George wants to say something, but he doesn't know what. Will takes another sip of tea, and George exhales. Maybe he was right, maybe he should stop trying to follow Tubbo and Tommy and make them feel like adults. But is war (even if relatively peaceful) a suitable place for minors? George doesn't know, he's not sure. He's no longer sure of anything, so he just nods at Willbur's speech, saying quietly: " I hope they'll be all right, that's all."

-"Toby!" - Suddenly, the silence in the kitchen is interrupted by Tommy's shout from the room, from which Tubbo appears a moment later, already used to his new surroundings and oblivious to the two pairs of surprised eyes staring at him.

-"George, where's a rag, I spilled some tea there," - Tubbo smiles, quickly putting the empty cup on the table and going to the sink, which George pointed out and in the drawer under which there was a mountain of various rags and towels.

— What happened?" - the owner of the house looks surprised at how Tubbo hastily takes several rags at once.

-I told you, I accidentally spilled the tea.

-"Why is Tommy shouting?" - Willbur asks, idly glancing at the entire tableau of what's going on in the kitchen. He was too tired from the day to react to anything.

-"I spilled the tea in his direction," the guy's eyes sparkle mischievously and quickly walks out of the kitchen back into the room, and George is one hundred and one percent sure that the tea was spilled clearly not by chance. Willbur snorts, apparently coming to the same conclusion.

-They're worth each other.

-"I totally agree," - both guys snort softly.

*******

George's room is quiet and dark. Guests are successfully accommodated in the living room. The teenagers occupied the couch, and Willbur, who also refused to leave, settled into a folding chair, wrapping his damn coat more tightly around him because there was no blanket for him. And George was really looking. No matter how bad the guest is, it's still not worth being a shitty host. He even tried to give away his favorite blanket, but was sent to hell.

There was no desire or energy to sit at the computer, and George almost immediately falls on the bed, out of habit checking his phone before going to bed for good night wishes. Opens a dialog and chokes on air, seeing that an hour ago some horseradish sent a voice message to the interlocutor. His fingers tremble as he quickly presses play, listening to it. He hears a strange, sharp rustle, the wind whistling, his swearing at Tommy, who pushed him into a snowdrift, and the blonde's own laughter, and then the recording stops. It seems that this is when the guy dropped the phone from his hands, sending a voice message to the interlocutor. And then there were messages from Nightmer, and for God's sake, why the fuck was he so worried about him every fucking time?

**NighTMAre:** wait, what?  
 **NighTMAre:** what happened to you, is that your voice on the recording?  
 **NighTMAre:** hey, answer me, don't you dare disappear at this very moment  
 **NighTMAre:** you were pushed into the river?  
 **NighTMAre:** you know, I like your voice, it's so damn cute

George giggles nervously, remembering that a voice message is just a curse for a teenager. Very nice, yes.

**NighTMAre:** Talk to me more often, please, I will be very pleased  
 **NighTMAre:** fuck)  
 **NighTMAre:** oh, i'm not talking about that, sorry)

George sighs, quickly starting to type a reply message. Tea, forgotten on the bedside table, is getting cold in proud solitude. Don't care.

**NicknameNotFound:** I'm Sorry. I accidentally sent it while I was running away from this jerk.  
 **NighTMAre:** How far did you run?))  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It's not funny, this crazy guy pushed me into a snowdrift, I got all wet.  
 **NighTMAre:** hah…  
 **NighTMAre:** "This crazy guy" is a pimp who? NicknameNotFound: Stop calling him that, I'm not comfortable, pf.  
 **NighTMAre:** It's not my fault that he chose that name for himself  
 **NighTMAre:** going to bed?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Yes, I went to wish you good night, and here is such a setup in the form of a voice message.  
 **NighTMAre:** and I liked it)

George bites his lip nervously, not knowing what to say, and as if realizing this, Nightmere begins to write a new message.

**NighTMAre:** Say good night to me?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Em?.. Good night. I would have done it without a reminder.  
 **NighTMAre:** no  
 **NighTMAre:** say it your voice  
 **NighTMAre:** please?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why?..  
 **NighTMAre:** just?..  
 **NighTMAre:** It's not hard(  
 **NighTMAre:** I want to hear you

George pauses for a couple of seconds, breathing in air, before he presses the send message button, which puts him in voice mode.

-"Good night" - he says quickly into the phone on an exhalation, finishing the message instantly and sending it off so as not to say something stupid to the other person. He views the message instantly, apparently without leaving the dialog, but is silent for several minutes, as in the case of the photo. Silent, and then sends three words. It's also fucking vocal, and George thinks he's smiling like a stupid schoolgirl.«You _too».Shitshitshit._

*******

George is asleep when another text message arrives at four in the morning.

**NighTMAre:** you're so fucking great, lost-boy. Just amazing.

Dream wants to delete this message, really wants to, but the fingers do not obey the owner. Well, that's fine. Let it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy pancake, i like it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to write. huh.

George doesn't know how to respond to the message that came late at night. What the fuck? Is that a compliment? What is it all about, and how to respond to such praise. "Just amazing." The guy exhales nervously, not noticing how he begins to smile at the praise. Praise? Yes, it must be her after all. And the morning, which began with a heart-rending scream and a mat from Tommy from the next room, suddenly becomes not so bad, even, to some extent, pleasant. The brunette sits on the bed, half listening to the screams and chatter behind the wall, and rereads yesterday's correspondence. Short, but, I must admit, remembered the guy for a very long time. His finger twitches a little as George clicks on the play button, listening to the voice message from Nightmer. And again. And again. The voice seems hoarse and hoarse, as if the other person is ill, and George wants to ask a question about the other person's health, but he is clearly still asleep, since he has not been online since five in the morning, so he just sighs, sending the usual "good morning". Just as he's about to get out of bed and get up, the door to his room is almost broken open (either by crashing or trying to open it the wrong way), and Tommy breaks into the inner sanctum, hastily locking the door behind him and looking around the room for something to barricade himself with, just in case. George watches with sleepy eyes as the teenager prepares to drag his desk to the doorway and wonders if the game was worth the candle, and whether he should have answered the messages of a certain "Pimpinnit" a few days ago. At least, after his answer, problems in life increased — that's for sure.

-"Don't touch the table, child," - the dark-haired man breathes, wrapping himself more comfortably in the blanket and lazily watching the encroachment on his furniture. Again.

-"Shut up," - Tommy breathes angrily, sitting down on the floor and watching the door intently. And George is so lazy to do anything that he, too, begins to stare aimlessly at the wooden surface of the door. And jumps up, instantly waking up, when I suddenly start banging on the door with force, trying, apparently, to open it in this way.

-"Tommy, motherfucker! What the fuck," - Willbur hisses from behind the door, trying to get into the room. The brunette also thinks that after this trio will have to spend money on repairs. - "Open it!"

— "So what did you do this time?" the guy gets up from the bed, walking past a blond teenager who was sitting on the floor in a lotus position, and not kicking him hard, calling him to account. He snorts.

-"I put snow on Will. And I put it in his shoes. And in general in all places to which could reach," — Tommy nastily grins, and begins to speak more quietly that behind a door did not hear. - "I also put salt in my tea. But he doesn't know that yet, and Toby has promised to keep quiet."

-"Poor man," - George says, to his own surprise, genuinely sorry for Willbur, hearing the cursing outside the door. He gives out a final, apparently parting kick on the door and footsteps indicating that the person who attacked the door has left. Tommy lets out a sigh of relief, turning abruptly to the guy who was pacing the room, stretching his stiff limbs. Old age, damn it

-"Okay, and now you and that weird guy on your cell phone who made you smile like a seventh-grader in love last night," - George blushing instantly, so he hastens to turn away from the teenager, who is watching his behavior with predatory eyes. - "Who is he?"

-"I have no idea," - George says, clutching the phone in his hand. Tommy raises his eyebrows in surprise.

-What do you mean?

-"Well," - the brunette bites his lip, squinting at the cell phone in his hand, and then turns to face the intrigued teenager. — To tell you the truth, I don't even know his name. And he's not know mine, too.

Tommy looks from the phone to the guy in surprise.

— You're talking to a man whose name you don't even know. It's... not very safe, you know…

-"You're a half-baked revolutionary," - George snorts, and instantly regrets his momentary inattention as Tommy grabs his wrist with his fingernails, scratching and forcing him to open his hand, which the boy does with a gasp of surprise. - "Give it back!"

George is trying to take away a teenager's mobile phone, but he is fast enough (accustomed to get away from the deserved blows in early childhood), because the chase around the room turns into a circus with two clowns, one of which is quite cleverly jumping on the furniture, twisting the phone in your hand and dropping everything it touches, and the second unsuccessfully trying to catch this little hurricane, trying to stop the destruction of his room and his phone, but speed and maneuverability, unfortunately, he concedes that on the tenth lap around the room while Tommy, smiling, includes phone, not protected by a password, he climbs with his feet on the bed. The screen instantly lights up the correspondence that the guy is not used to turning off, and the teenager is quite flipping through it, reading the messages.

-"Give it back!" George makes a final push, but without success. Tommy indifferently puts out a leg, holding the tired guy. — "You know it's rude to read other people's correspondence, don't you?"

— "In the course, in the course," - the guy with interest flips higher and higher, for a few seconds pausing on some message. - "Did you throw your photos?"

-"Once." - Tommy leafs through the correspondence in frustration, clearly expecting to see something more interesting than the simple conversations of two idiots who don't know each other. Sighs, about to return the phone to the owner, when suddenly…

**NighTMAre:** morning)

-"He's online," - the blond guy tells the already surrendered guy, who feels like a fire ignited by these words, which made him try to snatch the mobile phone again. Again without success.- "He wishes you a good morning." Piss yourself, how cute, you know."

George grunts in frustration, burying his face in the mattress. And why do children grow up so fast? Tommy smiles enigmatically, which George, busy studying the sheet with his own face, doesn't notice. He also doesn't pay much attention to the long "He-e-ey" that Tommy says into the phone. And then he jumps in surprise when a voice suddenly comes out of the speaker.

«- **Oh, how. Hello to you, too. Can you return the phone to the owner?** »

George freezes, as if paralyzed, replaying the other's voice over and over in his head, as if listening to yesterday's message wasn't enough for him, and his hands begin to shake. "Oh, what a bad case," common sense rolls his imaginary eyes as he packs his bags, deciding that he has nothing else to do in this empty head. "Well, good riddance, I haven't used you lately anyway," George wants to quip, but he doesn't think it's worth making an idiot of himself in front of himself. You never know, a bad impression will still create. Meanwhile, while George is bickering with the remnants of his mind that are about to leave him, Tommy presses the button, recording a voice message in response.He just..!

-"Nah, I'm interested in chatting with you, and this one doesn't give me that opportunity," - the teenager snorts into the phone. — "He tried to take my phone away from me, can you imagine?"

— "You stole my phone! Of course I'll try to get it back, you idiot," - George hisses, and suddenly, not expecting such a rush from himself, he stands up abruptly, dragging the teenager out of bed and dropping him to the floor, knocking the phone out of his hands in the process. He tries to delete the sent voice message, but it's too late — a green check mark is treacherously lit next to it, indicating that the message has already been viewed and, most likely, has already been listened to.

«- **What's that sound at the end?** » - the answer is not long in coming. George snorts as he looks at the guy sprawled on the floor, feigning a fatal injury by slamming his hand against the foot of the bed. Judging by the voice, the other person was also quite amused to listen to this, and the drowsiness began to disappear from him.

-"I threw him on the floor," George snorts into the phone, watching Tommy's performance intently. — "I think he's dying. Do you know what to do in such cases?

The message is instantly viewed, and the guy smiles, thinking that the interlocutor has not yet sent him to hell, but continues to communicate. What for? Who the hell knows. But does it matter? George doesn't know the answer, smiling wider when he sees a new voice message from the other person.

-« **Well, the best thing to do in this situation is to run away. Preferably by throwing the body into the pond. Is there one**?»

— "I meant how to save him, not how to get rid of the corpse," - the guy grins, sending a message, and on the floor Tommy starts laughing wildly, curled up in a pretzel. - "Hey, are you okay?"

The guy snorts as he puts the phone back in his pocket, receiving the last meaningful "Oops" in his voice. Great advice, just amazing. Especially, apparently, he liked Tommy, who even wanted to die, choking on laughter. George poked the boy uncertainly in the stomach with his toe, checking to see if he was still alive, for which he almost got bitten, and George decided to move away from the animal lying in the middle of his carpet. You never know.

-"Listen," - Tommy's voice suddenly becomes serious (as serious as a teenager lying on the floor trying to bite the owner of the house on the legs). — "Did you ever think of meeting that man, I don't know.… To communicate?"

\- "Is not an option, he is not a resident of L'maneburg," - guy rubs the bridge of his nose. — "We generally thought that we could meet at the festival, but he was not allowed to cross the border."

Tommy isn't sure what to say, so he just gets to his feet and slaps the guy on the shoulder. — Don't worry, I'm sure you'll meet again. You seem to be communicating quite well.

-"Tommy, this isn't..." - the blond man quickly interrupts George, who is trying to object.

-"Well, when that's all," he says, spreading his hands in different directions. - "When this is all over and the walls fall. And who will be the culprit? We. Sounds cool, doesn't it? We are the saviors of L'maneburg of a dictator, wow.

-pf - George smiles weakly, pulling out his cell phone again and clutching it in his hand. Out of habit. It was a fucking habit he'd developed in such a short time. - "Yeah, you're right, that sounds cool."

The guys are silent for a couple of minutes, thinking about each other, when suddenly…

-"Tommy, you little bitch, i'll fucking kill you!" - Suddenly there is a shout from the whole house, and the blond man grunts into his fist.

-"I think he's had some tea. Look, I can still sit here, can't I?" - George nods slowly, wondering if his old door will hold up against another attack.

*******

— "Did you really think you could hide behind some fucking board from me, Tommy?" Willbur's voice drips with sarcasm, and the fork in his hand, which the boy used to open the old lock, glittered menacingly in his hand. George wouldn't have been surprised if the guy had killed a hundred people with that fork. He was definitely capable of such a thing. Especially now, when his eyes were burning like hell. George watched nervously as Tommy, screaming and swearing at everyone and everything, climbed out of the window into the street, and behind him, ready to shed the blood of a stupid teenager who decided to finally fuck him for the morning, Willbur climbed. Tubbo, who has followed, snorts as he watches and shrugs ,saying " not for the first time."

— "So, are we going shopping today?" - The guy raises an eyebrow, looking at George, who is watching the two assholes running around the street.

-"Yes, but..." - the dark-haired man exhales, ruffling his hair. - "Listen, this is a strange question, but ... do you think Will is a good person?"

\- "And more specifically?" - Tubbo sits on the edge of the bed, looking at George in surprise. - "Well, he doesn't act like a bad person, does he?"

— "That's not what I'm talking about… It's just that when he first came in, I thought he might just use Tommy, you know? Then you came along, and my conviction grew stronger, and now ..." - the guy bites his lip, spreading his hands. - "And now I don't even know what to think of him. He's kind of an asshole, but kind of… He's not so bad, is he?"

-"You know, I think he's not bad, but..." - Tubbo exhales, spreading his hands. — "But he has a plan of his own that we don't know about. I don't know if he's a backup, or if that's his main goal, but yes. I'm sure he has a couple of tricks up his sleeves. But at the same time… You know, I don't think he wants to hurt us."

Tubbo smiles as he looks out the window at the boys, who are already pretty much rolling in the snow and trudging through the snowdrifts into the house. And George smiles faintly in agreement.

*******

**NighTMAre:** well,what there with your friends. Haven't they left yet?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Pf, how rude. No, we have to go to the store today.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I even took the day off.  
 **NighTMAre:** and spend it on some jerks (  
 **NighTMAre:** you'd better have a chat with me  
 **NicknameNotFound:** In the evening-required.  
 **NighTMAre:** owo  
 **NighTMAre:** i'll be waiting

George snorts, putting his phone back in his pocket as he stands in the hallway. Guests gather, arguing and occasionally exchanging neutral phrases. Tubbo, noticing another scuffle starting between Willbur and Tommy (mainly because of the latter's character), throws himself in front of them, almost covering the blond guy with his chest from anger. At least, now is not the time for competitions in running and throwing snow (and stones) at each other. Some other time.

The city is sparsely populated. Rare passers-by, wrapped in warm clothes, hurry on their very important adult affairs, grabbing backpacks and bags. George thinks that some of these serious uncles who are late for work are his age, and they look much older and more masculine. Tubbo and Tommy, who are walking in front, are talking cheerfully about nothing, and Willbur, who has moved away from this cheerful group, is lazily stuck in the phone.

«Perhaps he could be one of those important passers-by, hurrying about his business. He looks serious enough,»- George suddenly thinks, looking at the guy.

Willbur, noticing the excessive attention to his modest person, looks at George questioningly in response, and he hastily shakes his head. The teenagers had already reached the door of the shopping center, and now they were standing and waiting for them, shaking off the snow that had fallen from one of the roofs, under which they all managed to get. Willbur had remarked that if there had been icicles on the roof, it was quite possible that they would have been struck in the head by some idiot who had not ordered dangerous chunks of snow and ice to be removed from the roofs of the houses. Tubbo walked away from the snow-covered buildings from that moment on, while Tommy, on the other hand, looked up at the roofs for the first signs of icicles. Either to test Willbur's theory on himself, or to get an icicle and test the same theory on someone else. George wasn't sure what he was thinking, but he kept his distance from the teenager, hiding Tubbo behind him, just in case. You never know.

The store has few visitors — it's the height of the working day, after all. Only students and elderly people hang out here and there, and a few stately uncles in smooth-pressed suits occupied the nearest cafe. The guard looks suspiciously at the newcomers, but does not try to stop them, burying himself back in the monitor, on which some kind of time killer is open. Tommy mutters something about how he doesn't like being seen as a potential thief, makes an obscene gesture to the guard's back, and puts a handful of candy in his pocket, which was in a bowl near the security post and was intended for the youngest visitors

-"If they try to kick you out again, I'll tell them I'm not with you," - Willbur says, looking irritated at the teenager who shares the honestly stolen candy with Tubbo, who tries to say something and refuse, so as not to be complicit, already opens his mouth, but a few bright caramels fly in instantly. Right in the wrapper. And Tommy is already quite crunching candy, which, in fact, is not worth chewing.

-"Again?" - George snorts, taking some candy from the teenager and popping it into his mouth.

— "He managed to get into the children's maze when the lady who let him in was distracted, and hid in the pool with balls, scaring the little ones who got there. The screams, the tears." - Wilbur shrugs. — "The problem really was that the guard couldn't just climb into the maze and get it, there are too small passages. So we watched for half an hour as a big man, curled up in a horseradish knows how many times, tries to get this macaque, and he, laughing like a madman, rushes around him and climbs up the wall as soon as he gets a little closer."

-"They thought he was on drugs. I had to reassure his partner that Tommy was just an idiot and not a threat. It would be a shame if the police took us," - Tubbo complained.

— "Why were we allowed inside instead of being kicked out?" - George asked, smiling at the picture Willbur had described.

-"It's a different mall. We have a ban on that one now, and he," - Willbur suddenly turned to Tommy, his eyes flashing. - "The closest to my house. And now, for the sake of a bottle of water, I have to go fuck know where just so you know. Because of you!"

— "Well, you were standing by the maze, filming everything on camera, yelling at Tommy to get in the way so he wouldn't get caught. I wouldn't say you were acting like an outsider. It makes sense that they assumed you knew each other" - Tubbo snorts, hands in his pockets.

George sighs as he watches the boys start another bout of shit over nothing. Yes, it's fun to watch, but how annoying, God.

-"Okay, here's the plan." - The guy pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, looking at the time. A notification about a new message flashes, but he decides to answer it not in the presence of Tommy, who will not allow a normal conversation. - "Eleven. At twelve we gather here and go to eat. You can go shopping for a long time."

**NighTMAre:** how are you?

-"I agree," - Willbur nods, and turns on his heel a hundred and eighty degrees, purposefully walking in the direction of some store with an incomprehensible name.

-"Well, you want to get rid of us, yeah," - Tommy says, putting on an offended face, grabs Tubbo by the sleeve and drags him in the direction of a supermarket. - "Let's get out of here, Toby, we're not appreciated here."

George snorts. They such…

*******

**NicknameNotFound:** Listen, I need some help.

George, sitting in the fitting room, looks nervously at the clothes that the friendly consultants have stuffed into his hands for him to try on. The guy felt like a child who went to a clothing store with his mother, who asks to try on this and that. However, with one difference: there was no mother who would tell you what you can take and what is not worth it. And the guy looked with horror at the amount of clothes that he was given for fitting. And since neither Tubbo nor Tommy and Willbur (thank God) were around, he had to ask for help from the only person he could turn to. The gray offline icon changed to green as usual, and George smiled as usual when he saw the notification that the other person was writing him a message.

**NighTMAre:** ?  
 **NighTMAre:** did something happen?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Yes not that, but…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm in a clothing store and can't decide what to buy.  
 **NighTMAre:** you want me to be your consultant?)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I have enough consultants behind the door of the fitting room. I need someone who won't try to sell me as much of a product as possible.  
 **NighTMAre:** throw off at least a photo of clothes. What should I choose from?

George chooses the brightest, in his opinion, sweatshirts and sweaters that were brought to him, quickly photographs them and sends them to the interlocutor for evaluation.

**NighTMAre:** the whole palette of blue and purple. Are these your favorite colors?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Well ... yeah.  
 **NighTMAre:** How about that pink one?

George quickly looks at the pile of clothes he has chosen, mentally calculating which particular sweater is pink in the pile. To no avail. Sighing, he picks up the keyboard again.

**NicknameNotFound:** Which one exactly?  
 **NighTMAre:** he's there alone…  
 **NighTMAre:** can't you see him? Knitted like this  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I have protanopia, so no, I don't see it.

George picks up a blue-gray knit sweater. It seems that it is really quite pleasant to the touch. The message from Nightmer does not come immediately.

**NighTMAre:** Oh, I'm sorry (  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Nothing.  
 **NigTMAare:** hmm, but this explains why my background on the avatar suddenly turned yellow instead of green  
 **NighTMAre:** So how's the sweater? Found it?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Yeah, it looks good, kind of warm.  
 **NighTMAre:** put on

The guy hesitates before pulling on a sweater over his T-shirt. He, as it seemed outwardly, is soft enough and so warm that George thinks that with him you can even save on a jacket. The guy looks at himself in the mirror, trying to straighten his clothes, nervously biting his lip. It seems normal, and the color is more or less pleasant. At least not boring yellow, and thank you for that. He freezes for a second, picks up the phone and takes a photo of his reflection, which is quickly (so as not to have time to stop himself) sent to the interlocutor and just as quickly turns out to be viewed.

**NighTMAre:** If you don't take it, I'll mail it to you  
 **NicknameNotFound:** pf, do you think I'll just tell you my address?)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Especially after threatening to send me a sweater?)))  
 **NighTMAre:** :)  
 **NighTMAre:** so harmful  
 **NighTMAre:** I'll find it myself then  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Good luck

George snorts as he puts his phone back in his pocket and walks out of the fitting room. There is still a lot to buy, so there is no time for correspondence.

*******

-"Are you going to the North Pole?" - Tommy looks at the bags in George's hands in surprise. More precisely-by the number of them.

-"Got carried away a little"-George sits down on the sofa in a small cafe where the whole group has already gathered. "A little is an understatement. I'll have to drink tea again," - common sense snorts. Strange, he was going to leave in the morning.

Willbur is lying face down on the table, beatifically smiling and snorting over the conversation between Tubbo and Tommy, who didn't buy anything, but managed, as it turned out, when they had to order, to spend all their pocket money somewhere, so the older ones had to pay for pancakes and soda, not to leave the children without food.

\- "Smile!" - Tommy says suddenly, pulling out his cell phone and snapping a picture of his three friends chewing on their food without having had breakfast in the morning. George, who was not expecting a photo shoot, chokes, and Willbur begins, quite predictably, to laugh again. And didn't help him! A man dies in front of his eyes, and he laughs like a horse. Tommy grabs his arm for some reason and jerks the limb sharply, almost pulling it out. George immediately forgets that he is actually dying, and tries to take his own hand away from this teenager with the look of a maniac.

— "What the fuck?" - he gasps, pulling his hand away and rubbing his shoulder. Tommy smiles.

— "I've read that if a person is suffocating, you have to pull his hand and it will pass. It worked!" - The blond man takes a long drink from his glass

— "You almost broke my arm. Of course I tried to pull it out!" - George sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. — "If I ever want a baby, I'll have a goldfish and calm down. It gives less trouble."

-"Afraid you won't be able to keep track of the baby?" - Willbur snorts, idly watching the scene and gesturing to the excited waitresses that everything at their table is normal and there is no need to call security.

-"He's afraid he won't find a woman to procreate," - and George chokes a second time.

_The festival is six days away_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so cute.')


	7. Chapter 7

**NicknameNotFound:** That's not fair. You know what I look like, and I don't.  
 **NighTMAre:** Don't you know what you look like?  
 **NighTMAre:** I can send a mirror by mail  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Stop it. You know exactly what I mean.

Dream leans back on the sofa he has chosen for a week in the house, pulling off his mask with a grin and feeling the indignation of the interlocutor right on his skin. Did get up on the wrong foot? The guy quickly looks through new messages from other contacts, but nothing interesting. Only spam, and messages from some unknown acquaintances, about the existence of which, frankly, the blonde did not know at all. Boredom, in short. And the only other person he really wanted to talk to seemed to have had too much sleep again and was going to work, so there was no sense of friendliness about him. Dream's taunts only seemed to add fuel to the fire, and lost cursed in the correspondence, continuing to respond to every fucking message almost instantly. And how amazing it was. Dream snorts into his fist as he writes a reply message.

**NighTMAre:** i'm afraid my beauty will make you blind, so don't)

My hands freeze for a second.

**NighTMAre:** sometime later  
 **NicknameNotFound:** …  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'll take you at your word.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I went to work, i'll write again.

Dream freezes, wondering if that "later" is true, or if it's just an excuse. And then he thinks about how this phrase was perceived by the interlocutor. And feels like shit for cheating. How many times, I wonder? Why is it that some chat guy can make him feel like a shitty person, but the people who died with his help can't? Who the hell knows. Perhaps because he doesn't consider them human? Maybe it's because the fact that all people are living beings hasn't been in his head since he was fifteen? Each of them is not just a brainless NPC, but a hero with his own story, his own skills and his own tasks. And it blows your mind. This is simply unbelievable. It is incredible that billions of people on the planet are really alive, really think, have their own character and their own mind. It was maddening. A guy who suddenly became interested in programming in high school could not understand it from a scientific point of view. And then he suddenly wondered, " What if I'm wrong? What if they are not alive, but simply dolls, code errors?". And it was at that moment that all of these puppets suddenly became completely spat on. Well, they die and die. What the hell difference does it make? Who cares if a couple of people die? They will cry for a day or two and that's it, they will continue to live as if nothing had happened. They will live in peace, like the characters of a game from which some minor character has suddenly been removed, occasionally remembering him for the sake of decency at dinner parties. It's disgusting.

Therefore, the fact that he managed to get attached to a completely unfamiliar kid from the network, I must admit, was alarming and surprising. Yes, was so attached that I was looking forward to a new message, and the photos sent recently were fully studied. Only three photos. That's three fucking days in total. But so awesome that they were, to the great shame of the guy, saved in the gallery. Communication in recent years, although not shining with a huge number of messages, voice or photos, has acquired a more personal scale. At least, the guy started recording voice messages (even if the first one was sent by accident, and contained only swearing). It was nice.

*******

That night, Dream simply decided to diversify his boring life for events. Well, how boring. For more than a week, he had been monitoring the communications of the nedo-revolutionaries, who had not even bothered to protect their correspondence in a decent way. It was fascinating enough, but admittedly, just watching it was boring, and the plan was full of all sorts of holes that could interfere with their idea. And then there was himself. He, who had all the correspondence, all the plans, addresses and phone numbers, as well as the number of the L'manburg police, who would instantly come and detain them, if the blonde only reported it. The president's safety is above all else, damn him. A stupid city with fools at its head and stupid people who believe these fools. Do they believe it? In any case, calling the police would just be boring, so after buying a new phone from some guy in the transition, he wrote to one of the revolutionaries that all the information about them was on his hard drive and the three of them should meet and discuss something.

He did not immediately agree. Dream saw, sitting in a snow-covered park, that the message was read almost instantly (most likely, he expected to receive a message from his accomplice), but the response came only after half an hour, during which the guy managed to turn into an icicle, sitting on the street. In the distance, the lights of L'manburg could be seen clearly from the park, which was located a few kilometers from the city's borders.

**Wilbur:** ok

Resigned? The guy, pleased with himself, dictates the address and place of the meeting and with a calm soul throws the phone into the snow. Cold. It would be time to walk home and see what unflattering words the guys caught in such a serious scam now speak about him. This should be fun. A thought suddenly occurs to him that might save his life. At home, all the data is archived and password-protected, and then sent to one of the fake contacts, who a couple of days ago was added to his friends.

**NighTMAre:** if I don't write the day after tomorrow, send this file wherever you can. To the police, to all sorts of bodies  
 **NighTMAre:** you can even go to the off site to fuck up. The main thing is that this file is seen by as many bigwigs of L'manburg as possible  
 **user873320:** neither hello nor goodbye how rude  
 **user873320:** do not share what you got into, a friend is called still  
 **NighTMAre:** so, will you help?  
 **user873320:** fuck the question of course I will help but you owe me  
 **user873320:** what will we save your ass from this time  
 **user873320:** tell me what you got into  
 **NighTMAre:** Later

Dream exhales, looking with a calm soul, as the account with which he communicated a couple of seconds ago suddenly becomes unavailable, and on the page flashes "sorry, no such account was found, check the correct spelling of the user name". He's safe now. Not completely, but at least to some extent. He exhales as he lies down on the bed. I don't think I'll be able to sleep for more than three or four hours, but it's worth a try, isn't it?

*******

Everything passes, to the great surprise of the guy, quite calmly. He is easily allowed to enter the city with a purchased pass, the weather is not very pleasant, but snow in this situation is better than rain. Two guys standing on the edge of the park do not arouse suspicion at all. One really nervously looks back at each person who passes by, not even bothering to remove the brass knuckles from his hand, and the second, clutching something in his pocket, stands in a fucking mask, which is the head of something incomprehensible. In any case, it is difficult to identify the animal from afar. And this couple clearly doesn't raise any suspicions, yeah. The guy exhales heavily, amazed at such cretinism, and, approaching them at arm's length, nods to the side, urging them to follow him. These two, despite the small amount of gray liquid in their heads, understand what is required of them, and obediently follow the Dream into the thick of the trees. Dream knows that the second guy is clutching nothing but a gun in his pocket. He sees its outline behind the thin fabric. And mentally rejoices that he took care of it in advance. I don't want to die. Leaves, removes the mask, and offers to tell him about a couple of details in the plan that he did not know about. The details that were not discussed in the network. And they were ... intriguing.

What could the guy say after talking to them? They're both madmen. True, one of them tries to justify himself that this is done for a good purpose, and the second simply wants to destroy the city for the sake of, allegedly, "purification". Crazy. Crazy people, hungry for blood and spectacle. And still do not understand how to protect themselves, so as not to get caught by the police. How they even survived to the day of the meeting-and remained a mystery. Luck? On the other hand, the chaos they were planning for the next month was admittedly fascinating and fascinating. And, willy-nilly, I wanted to see it firsthand. Hear the screams, see the bright bloodstains on the square, feel the heat of the explosion on your back. The guy, sitting in a dark room after a long conversation, clenched and unclenched his fists. And I thought. He wondered why the hell he'd ever found it so tempting to work with these strange people. Did he finally go cuckoo?

Turning on the computer, the guy winced at the bright light coming from the monitor, and from the grunt of the system unit, which the guy simply did not want to spend money on replacing. The computer was almost unused, and there was a brand-new laptop on the bed with the TV series tab open, which the guy watched before he decided to blackmail socially dangerous individuals. But at this particular moment, I wanted to lean back in my chair and lazily tap into an old monitor. Just like when I was a kid. And I don't care that the guy is almost twenty. Sometimes you just want to be a child, so why should he deny himself such a pleasure? The piece of paper with the ID of the new account, shoved at the meeting by Blade, seems to burn, lying in his pocket, and Dream sighs, taking it out and quickly running his eyes over it. Just a set of numbers. And maybe still?.. The social network tab opens surprisingly quickly, as if the old computer itself is pushing the guy to something that he may regret in the future. First of all, he writes to his friend on the main account, informing him that he is, firstly, alive, and, secondly, that file needs to be held a little on the computer, in order, quite possibly, to save his mortal life. But it doesn't get a response, the user hasn't been online for several hours. And it seems nothing unusual, the night is still there. But it's infuriating.

Okay… The guy quickly enters the ID of a new friend, getting to an empty profile, which was last on the network a few months ago, and the page was registered in general a few years ago. It's stressful. But on the other hand-who prevented them from buying abandoned accounts? This is a hundred times cheaper than buying virtual numbers or SIM cards. The guy sighs, wondering if it's worth it, but… Who doesn't take risks, so to speak.

**NighTMAre:** Okay, let's say I agree… I can't say that I'm interested or that it's somehow good for me, but it sounds fun, and L'manburg needs a little fun)))

The message, surprisingly for such a late hour, is read quickly enough. The guy waits for one minute, two, but he doesn't get a response, so he decides to add a few more messages so that Blade knows exactly who is writing to him. You never know.

**NighTMAre:** in any case, a deal is a deal. The conditions are quite satisfactory to me. The question remains, what is the probability of your success?Schlatt has a lot of fucking guards. Yes, their intellectual abilities are on the level of this drinking guy, but still…  
 **NighTMAre:** imagine if he chose his subordinates from former drinking buddies))0))

He snorts, thinking that there really are some drunks and drug addicts in power right now, so this scenario was quite logical, but he doesn't get an answer this time either. Read, but no response. This was beginning to be frankly annoying. Do they really not understand how sensitive a situation they are in, and how quickly, if anything, they will be tied up?

**NighTMAre:** Uh?.. TB? Are you ignoring me?

He is already preparing to unsubscribe a message that the transaction is about to be canceled, and the archiver with the data will go on a trip, when suddenly he receives a message. A message in which the user writes that the Dream has made a mistake with the account. He pauses for a second, wondering if the two of them have decided to leave him in such a stupid and naive way, but then shakes his head — it would be so stupid that even a five-year-old child would not buy it. The guy quickly checks the ID on the piece of paper and the ID of the profile and exhales. Okay, the idiot in this situation is himself. Either his finger had slipped, or he hadn't noticed that he'd put a zero instead of nine, but the fact remained. He wrote to some complete stranger, almost ruining the whole scam for the guys himself. It would be funny, I guess. Or it wouldn't be. In any case, it was worth apologizing to the person who so diligently ignored his first message, either not knowing what to say to it, or being afraid.

**NighTMAre:** oh…  
 **NighTMAre:** sorry if I scared you :)  
 **user406674:** Nothing, it happens to everyone.

Dream was about to leave the network, when suddenly it was like the devil pulled. There was a lack of communication and the fact that there was no one I knew to talk to. So those strange messages about an empty account, a house, and dust were written by the fingers themselves, automatically sending them to the recipient, even forgetting for a second that he had originally planned to unsubscribe to Blade. However, the reason quickly returns, and for a second it becomes scary. It is scary that the person sitting on the other side of the screen, considering his messages suspicious, will write where it is necessary. And on the main account, from which he wrote, there was a lot of data stored, the use of which was illegal. If they find them, he's definitely fucked.

But an hour or two passes, and the police still don't knock on the door, so Dream thinks that he seems to be very lucky. Turns off the series, the aimless chatter of the characters of which begins to annoy, goes to the social network in order to quickly check for new messages and go to bed with a calm soul, but looks in surprise at the new contact, who has appeared in the list of dialogues. However, he almost immediately realizes who this mysterious person is. He quickly opens his profile, studying the avatar with interest, with which the boy smiles uncertainly at him, noting to himself that he is nineteen or twenty years old, no more. So the fact that the guy wasn't even on social media was funny enough. There seemed to be no such people left on the planet, and here he is! A fucking rarity. And yet, I must admit, the guy was amused by the fact that for the sake of some stranger, the interlocutor put an avatar. It was ... flattering. And, despite the fact that the interlocutor has not appeared on the network since the last conversation, the guy takes a risk by sending messages, and, to his great surprise, getting a response to them quickly enough. Why wasn't he sleeping at all at this hour of the night?

**NighTMAre:** aww, you really did it  
 **NighTMAre:** Nice  
 **NicknameNotFound:?**  
 **NighTMAre:** well, a nickname and a photo  
 **NighTMAre:** Did you put them on for me?

Dream chuckles as he watches the other person, apparently debating what to say, start writing, then stop, erasing the message that has already been written.

**NicknameNotFound:** No. I just thought that I need to somehow revive the account.

What a liar! Dream nonchalantly chuckles, plunging headlong into correspondence with a new acquaintance (or, rather, an unfamiliar) interlocutor. The fact that the guy put his photo was obvious (a photo search proved that the photo was in the network in a single copy), but it was worth asking. If only to notice how the guy hesitated before confirming the authenticity of the picture.

-Twenty-four, really? - the guy exhales, looking at the profile picture in amazement. Why the fuck does he look like a teenager? Does he drink the tears of virgins in order to preserve his youth? However, judging by his physique, he could not drag someone into the basement, much less make them cry. Therefore, I had to stop at the option that the guy sold his soul to the Devil.

A strange kind of compliment comes out of his mouth when the guy carefully examines the photo again, analyzing what he saw again and again. He hadn't spent a few bucks on that weird psychology book for nothing! It is necessary to use the knowledge. True, clever words to describe the type of personality, characteristics and other complex things were mixed in my head, and no matter how hard the guy tried, I could not remember them. And attempts to describe him were reduced to a simple:"cute". So Dream decided that, perhaps, this characteristic would be enough and with a calm soul sent a message about it to the interlocutor. I wanted to add that you have to pay for an appointment with a great psychologist like him, but I decided that the first consultation may well be free. Shareware psychologist, damn it. Search in the AppStore and GooglePlay. Only a little later does he realize that with such a message, he simply confused the interlocutor, who, not knowing how to react, decided to leave, wishing him good night and at the same time complaining about work. And Dream, who has already slept during the day, unexpectedly wishes himself a good night and, turning off the phone, throws it aside, closing his eyes. And the day didn't seem so bad after all.

A strange kind of compliment comes out of his mouth when the guy carefully examines the photo again, analyzing what he saw again and again. He hadn't spent a few bucks on that weird psychology book for nothing! It is necessary to use the knowledge. True, clever words to describe the type of personality, characteristics and other complex things were mixed in my head, and no matter how hard the guy tried, I could not remember them. And attempts to describe him were reduced to a simple:"cute". So Dream decided that, perhaps, this characteristic would be enough and with a calm soul sent a message about it to the interlocutor. I wanted to add that you have to pay for an appointment with a great psychologist like him, but I decided that the first consultation may well be free. Shareware psychologist, damn it. Search in the AppStore and GooglePlay. Only a little later does he realize that with such a message, he simply confused the interlocutor, who, not knowing how to react, decided to leave, wishing him good night and at the same time complaining about work. And Dream, who has already slept during the day, unexpectedly wishes himself a good night and, turning off the phone, throws it aside, closing his eyes. And the day didn't seem so bad after all.

*******

And tomorrow he writes to the stranger again, and the day after, and many days later. And he answers. Every time. Each time, he grasps the topic of conversation like a drowning man grasping an outstretched hand. And it's flattering, and it's awfully nice. It's nice to know that someone really enjoys talking to you. And Dream himself did not notice how he became attached to the guy, with childish naivety, despite his age, who responds to every message from a person about whom he knew nothing. It's so stupid and dangerous that Dream himself has no idea why the guy keeps doing it. Probably because he doesn't know that a file with his address has been stored on Dream's desktop for several days, which turned out to be easy to find by phone number — it was the most popular place where the guy had ever used the phone. Stupid boy. Or the stupid one here is not him at all, but one idiot who has started to sit on social networks even more, checking every fucking hour whether his interlocutor has entered the network. The light at the avatar burned invitingly green, offering to start a conversation. But the guy still has to be at work, and he didn't like to sit on the phone until he did the job.

**NighTMAre:** Is something wrong?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I passed out at work from a temperature and they told me to go home :)

What the fuck?.. The guy clenches and unclenches his fists nervously.

**NighTMAre:** what's wrong with you?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Just the temperature is high. I'm lying down, drinking tea.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It's fine.  
 **NighTMAre:** i t i s f i n e?..  
 **NighTMAre:** asshole,if you're fucking sick, why the fuck did you go to work?NighTMAre: what if something had happened?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** No, it's okay, seriously. I took an antipyretic, so…  
 **NicknameNotFound:If** I die I will write)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Will you buy me a flower?  
 **NighTMAre:** not funny  
 **NighTMAre:** i told you not to wander around in that shit you called clothes  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I didn't have any money.  
 **NighTMAre:** YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME, NOT RISKED YOUR HEALTH

The other person doesn't answer for about a minute, and Dream clenches and unclenches his fists, fearing for a second that he might have startled the guy, but very soon a new message appears, and the guy exhales in relief.

**NicknameNotFound:** Talk to me, huh?  
 **NighTMAre:** about what?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** About anything?..

Dream smiles as he presses the record voice message button…

  
_The festival is five days away_


	8. Chapter 8

It sucks to be sick. The body shudders from a sharp drop in temperature, the pressure jumps back and forth like a madman, and in order to breathe, you have to drop half a tube of drops into your nose, otherwise it simply will not work. One plus — George was spared and given two days of sick leave, and threatened to lose his bonus if he continued to shirk work. You see, the loss of consciousness is not enough indicator that a person is ill, and it is worth coming up with something more convincing. And the fact that it was possible to bring him to himself only with the help of ammonia — no one cared. The guy huffs resentfully, once again throwing a couple of white pills in his mouth and drinking warm tea. The antipyretic was rapidly running out, so all the guy could do was look sadly at the almost empty pack and hope that the fever would pass before the drugs ran out. Otherwise, it will be bad.

He's feeling a little better now. At the very least, it was much better than yesterday, when all he could do was lie there, wrapped in a blanket, shivering in the cold, listening to the chatter from the phone. What he was talking about Knightmare George, to tell you the truth, I had no idea. The words were jumbled in my head, mixing and forming a mess. But the voice, softly telling a story from his life, lulled him to sleep, like a fairy tale that parents tell before going to bed. And it calmed you down, helped you sleep, helped you forget that you were dying of a fever and a wild cough that was tearing at your lungs, which seemed about to come out with an uncontrollable attack. It's disgusting. The voice from the smartphone speaker continued to emotionally tell some story from school, but George did not hear it then, plunging into a long-awaited dream-just to forget.

And in the morning it was easier. The temperature had dropped to thirty-eight during the night, and although it was still high enough, it was still better than the forty degrees that made him feel like he was melting like ice cream. He slept badly — the constant waking up every half hour was annoying, any sound from the street seemed too loud, and it was difficult to breathe, but the guy just stubbornly took a sip of water from the mug that stood on the bedside table, and buried his face in the pillow. If he didn't get enough sleep, it would be worse. And in the morning it was easier. This morning wasn't like yesterday. The phone flickered lazily, announcing a new message. And George was smiling like a moron, opening the dialog box with a familiar gesture, in which there are only two contacts. He opens his correspondence with Knightmer and smiles only more when he sees several voice messages with a total complexity of about fifteen minutes and "good night", which the guy apparently sent when he realized that the interlocutor had disappeared from the network. George knows that he will listen carefully to these voicemails when he once again tries to understand this strange stranger laughing into the phone. Why a stranger? And what other way to call it, without knowing anything about it, even the name? "However, "the dark — haired man quickly checks himself," he doesn't know much about me either." So it turns out that they communicate for about three weeks, and even do not know each other by name. And it didn't matter, what mattered was that this strange and distant man had become so close in such a short time that George really needed to communicate with him, as if he were in the air. The lack of communication, and the fact that the other person wanted to communicate with him, which was insanely pleasant, had a strong effect.

 **NicknameNotFound:** Morning.

The message is expected to be instantly read.

 **NighTMAre:** the same for you  
**NighTMAre:** how are you?  
**NicknameNotFound:** The temperature dropped a little. I sit, drink tea, feel sad.  
**NighTMAre:** pf, what are you sad about?  
**NicknameNotFound:** Yes, then there will be a blockage at work for these two days. The day after to-morrow I'll come and stay there-mark my words.

The guy sighs sadly, finishing his tea. Want to pour more, but he's too lazy to do it, so he just lies on his side, thoughtlessly looking at the screen. It's comforting.

 **NighTMAre:** You only got two sick days?  
**NicknameNotFound:** The office thought I was pretending to be sick.  
**NighTMAre:** Assholes

George smiles as he rubs the bridge of his nose. It may be rude, but now Nightmer is right as never before.

 **NighTMAre:** and it is impossible, I do not know there, to change the company for example?  
**NighTMAre:** you have so much work that you stay late until the night, they do not give you sick leave  
**NighTMAre:** i have a feeling that you are not working in a construction company, but at least in one of the cauldrons of hell  
**NicknameNotFound:** Yeah, I fill out paperwork and make reports on how many sinful souls were burned in a month. And the devil in the jacket and the highly polished shoes runs our firm.  
**NicknameNotFound:** Dream job, fuck it.  
**NighTMAre:** you have a ... nasty fantasy  
**NicknameNotFound:** I know.

*******

It gets boring to lie in bed fast enough. The music coming from the stuttering speakers begins to strain the ear, and the temperature gradually subsides, giving the guy a relieved exhale. He takes a quick look at the remaining medications and lets out a long sigh — there are only a few pills left. And this is bad for two reasons: first, he clearly drank more than the permissible dose, and, secondly, if the temperature decides to return again — he is fucked. Irrevocably. The gray mass in my head, having picked up from the common sense that has gone on a binge, advises me to go to the pharmacy, and at the same time-to the store. It's not the temperature that will kill him, but the hunger of hell. His stomach, unsurprisingly, supports this suggestion, and George regrets that the only part of him that was aware of the whole fucked-up situation decided to leave him, and is now drunk somewhere in the corner of his mind in proud solitude. At least would advise you not to take so many pills, traitor!

The guy dresses quickly enough. In fact, it would have been better for him to order the delivery of medicines and food at home, but after a trip to the shopping center — the cat did not cry for money, and to ask them from the interlocutor, despite his obvious willingness, in case of anything, to give them, was simply a shame. So I had to curse myself and my financial ignorance, putting on a brand-new jacket. Although the cold will not die in the near future. Such a comfort, in truth, but at least something. Fresh snow, which fell overnight, covers the ice with a thin layer. Enough to hide it, but not enough to stop it from sliding. The guy almost falls a couple of times, despite the new winter boots, which had a sole specially designed for walking through a snow-covered (and icy) city. In short, either he was tricked into selling ordinary shoes at the price of winter shoes, or the guy walked somehow wrong. But, albeit with difficulty, the guy still manages to hobble to the store, never falling into a snowdrift, which, given his condition, could lead to quite negative consequences. In the building, a terrifyingly bright light hits his eyes, and the guy winces, resting his shoulder against the wall — it begins to darken in his eyes. The store's employees, who are used to drunks and drug addicts, only look at him with disgust — if he dies, they will have to report to them, and the corpse truck is unlikely to arrive in five minutes, so the body will have to decompose peacefully right in the sales hall for half an hour, if not more.

However, he quickly felt better, only dizziness, which is disgusting, did not want to disappear in any way. Sighing, he walked over to the guard, deciding to ask for water. He looks skeptical and almost sarcastic, saying: "did you have a fun evening?", but generously pours water from the cooler into a plastic cup, to which George nods gratefully, and the man just mumbles something about young people ruining their health. And you can't prove that he only drinks on holidays, and he's never touched drugs in his life! But then, did he need a confession from a security guard? So the guy does not know, and therefore, taking the basket, hurriedly enters the trading floor. It is purchased "to the maximum" (as far as the funds allow). Cheese, sausage, bread, a few packets of instant noodles, and a couple of bags of cheap instant powder that someone mistakenly called cappuccino. It was more like a good old Nesquik mixed with sugar. But the guy loved "Nesquik " as a child, so why not? The cashier, apparently recognizing him, does not look like a leper, but smiles good-naturedly, asking if everything is fine with him. He nods, bowing his head, and tells her about the cold, and she sincerely wishes him a speedy recovery. And this simple good-humour, I must admit, lifts the mood, and he smiles back.

The pharmacist in the pharmacy, which is literally opposite the supermarket, also does not hide his disapproval, aimed at the newcomer, but after assessing the reddened nose and trembling all over the body, determines the symptoms of a cold and smiles benignly, asking the guy what he needs. And, God save his family, offers analogues of expensive medicines, which allows the guy to exhale — there is enough money for a couple more packs of noodles, and there is not far to the advance payment.

He walks home shivering in the cold. Either the jacket is not warm enough, and it would be worth putting a jacket under it, or the temperature has jumped again. The snow, which had not yet been removed or soiled in any way, covered with sand and mud, which did not save from the ice, but soiled his shoes, creaked under his feet, and the guy somehow got lost in space, listening to this creak and looking only at his feet. He is so disconnected from reality that he does not immediately hear exactly the same creaking, clearly coming from a group of people, and then he hears drunken shouts and requests to stop behind him. Heart stops for a second, and then it starts to beat like crazy, and my body shivers. But not from the cold — from fear. Drunken voices approach. Don't want to run — they might follow, but it's not a good idea to stay where they are, so George moves as fast as he can with the bag, heading for the house. This, of course, a bad idea to show your residence to people who have decided to Rob you in broad daylight, finding an easy prey, but stayed in place, it will lose the remaining money, food and phone, which no one wished to part last. He hears the screams of his pursuers for about five minutes as they follow him, and then, when he is five hundred meters from home, he breaks into a run. Those who hesitate for a second, rush in pursuit. Some of them immediately fall, sliding on the ice down the street, but a couple of guys, who seem to have drunk the least, persistently pursue him. He can feel them coming at his back, can already imagine the fumes coming from the group, and clenches his teeth. Faster! Faster, damn it!

-Stop, you bitch! — heard behind him, but the guy grabs the door handle, which is usually forgot to close before going to the store, and, having flown into the room, turns sharply to the castle, hearing the blow on the door, as if that crashed to a heavy body, and then, falling on his knees and trying to catch his breath after running, hears a series of attacks on his poor door, which, despite pressure, continued to rescue the owner. Then a particularly strong blow (apparently with a foot), swearing and "well, sit, mouse, in the hole. We'll catch it anyway." It's getting scary. The adrenaline rush in my blood has dulled my senses, but now it's really scary. The guy clutches his head, looking fearfully at the kitchen, which had the nearest window, but it seems that no one was going to break into his private property. Had not yet arrived. It was only now beginning to dawn on George that if he ran out onto the road, he could turn back to the store, where he would be protected by the store's security, and not lead the drunken (and clearly socially dangerous) fauna of his yard straight to his door.

The phone shakes in his hands as the guy pulls off his jacket and crawls back under the covers, taking his temperature along the way. He doesn't know what to write, but he feels that he won't be able to sleep well if he doesn't share it with someone else. With that "special someone"? Oh, no, the guy knows exactly who he wants to talk to about what happened, but he doesn't even know how to start. As it turned out, it was not worth considering the beginning of the dialogue. Nightmer himself, as if sensing something was wrong, appeared on the network with the usual message "how are you?", from which each time it became pleasant and warm. And this one was no exception. But this time, the guy knows for sure, the answer will excite the interlocutor (who was already nervous when it came to the health of the brunette) in earnest.

**NicknameNotFound:** I have serious problems.  
**NicknameNotFound:** Just don't get mad right away, okay?

George writes the second message, knowing full well how Nightmere will react to his walk down the street, and therefore tries to stop the outrage on this topic immediately and in the bud. The interlocutor generally had a strange, explosive character. One moment he's as calm as a boa constrictor, laughing into voice messages, telling jokes, and then, in a second, "bang", and then he's ready to tear and throw because of something unknown, thereby scaring George. And that one, by the way, is not a child! He's fucking older than Nightmere, so why the fuck is he acting like a mother hen with a golden egg lately?

 **NighTMAre:** i'm listening carefully  
**NicknameNotFound:** I went to the store.

The guy sees how instantly the interlocutor begins to type a message, and therefore immediately writes "stop", so that, if not to calm the Nightmer, then postpone the lecture on taking care of your health until the next time.

 **NicknameNotFound:** Listen up.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I had to buy an antipyretic, yes, food. I didn't just leave the house.  
**NicknameNotFound:** And on the way home, some group of people followed me, and I rushed to my house.  
**NicknameNotFound:** They were running after me, and ... I'm scared. They know where I live, you know?  
**NicknameNotFound:** I'm a fucking idiot who showed my house to somebody.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I didn't know what to do. They were running after me!  
**NicknameNotFound:** If I had run a little slower — I would have already been lying in a snowdrift without my things and the last money, I didn't have much choice.  
**NicknameNotFound:** And I... don't know what to do.  
**NighTMAre:** give me your address

The guy freezes for a second, forgetting how to breathe, as if he's been doused with cold water from a bucket, and in the silence that follows, his heart is pounding so loudly that you could hear it from the kitchen. Does he want to come? But almost immediately, George remembers-he was not allowed into the city, so the fact that the other person asks him for an address seems even stranger.

 **NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
**NighTMAre:** in case i need to call the cops  
**NicknameNotFound:** We have twenty kilometers to the nearest police station, the police, in case of anything, will not have time to arrive. And, if they come when no one is there — you will get a fine.  
**NighTMAre:** spit, dictate

*******

Dark. The city is slowly sinking into darkness, and teenagers are crawling out on the streets, hurrying to the next club, ringing with music, or not the most favorable segments of the population. In the city center at night, there are constant shouts, quarrels and music, as if he still can not say goodbye to the past day and will go to rest. It's annoying. The guy casually tucks his hair, which has escaped from under the hood, back, looking around. Walking without the usual heavy mask was, to tell the truth, not very pleasant, but do not draw too much attention to yourself — it can turn into a call to the police.

The bus stop is almost completely empty, except for a couple of handsome men in three-piece suits with bags on their shoulders, talking quietly to each other, returning, apparently, from work and discussing some important reports for the authorities. Boring. The bus does not keep you waiting, and the guy quickly jumps into it, sitting on the farthest seat — it takes him a long time to go, and therefore he does not really want to get up, letting the fellow travelers scurrying back and forth, now something else is important.

 **NighTMAre:** how are you?

For a minute, until the message lights up "read", the guy nervously clutches the mobile phone in his hand. The main thing is to have time.

 **NicknameNotFound:** It's fine. I only saw them on the street a couple of hours ago, but they didn't try to break into the house, so it's fine.  
**NighTMAre:** in any case, don't go outside.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I wasn't going to. Look what I have!

Dream can't help but smile when, like, a grown guy throws him a picture of ordinary sandwiches, enjoying them as if they were a Christmas present. That is... cute? Yes, probably, this is the word that the guy could pick up, sitting in a stuffy bus, and watching the multicolored lights flash past in the dark outside the window-the windows of houses decorated with garlands. People love holidays so much. People are strange creatures, but isn't he just as crazy as everyone else? Isn't he going to hell knows where to hell knows who in another part of town right now? - "You're just as crazy as the others, willing to risk everything for some boy you care about. The same ordinary person" - a sarcastic inner voice prompts, and the guy winces. Neither that irritation, nor the fact from the truth. Why is he doing this? For what? No, it's not like that… For whom? For the sake of some stranger from the network, whose name he does not even know (the provider refused to disclose any information about its customers, damn it. It would be worth trying the information on the phone number, but later. A little later). He exhales, and it's just him and the tired driver on the bus, staring at the darkening road. Dream thinks that they are about to get into an accident with this sleepy man at the wheel, but don't give a shit? Don't give a shit.

A pleasant female voice, announcing the final stop, beats disgustingly on the ears, as if someone has scratched the iron with his nails. Why so loud? Nods to the tired and sleepy driver (looking at his condition, he definitely decides that he will order a taxi. Don't want to risk it), and jumps out of the car. The wind blows like a whip in his face, and he finally exhales, noticing how a cloud of steam escapes from his mouth. It's cold, it's a disease. The phone beeps, announcing a new message.

 **NicknameNotFound:** I saw one man in black watching my house.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I turned on the light in the kitchen, and I'm sitting in the room and watching the street.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I'm scared.

Damn. The guy almost breaks into a run — to the house of the interlocutor is still almost a kilometer(mile) away.

 **NighTMAre:** everything will be fine, I promise  
**NighTMAre:** just sit there and tell me what's going on, okay?  
**NighTMAre:** i called the police  
**NicknameNotFound:** That guy's already gone. You'll be in trouble if the cops don't catch anyone.  
**NighTMAre:** i made an anonymous call and reported that drunk people in black were walking around my house and looking into the windows of houses. They won't catch me  
**NighTMAre:** be careful  
**NighTMAre:** the police will be here soon. They won't have time to do anything to you

Dream breathes heavily as he enters one of the dark courtyards. And the guy walks around here after work at this time? It's creepy. The windows in the houses are not lit. Almost all of them. Except for one thing. Except for one window, which lights up, as the guy immediately realizes, the kitchen. Which means that somewhere out there, in the dark window next to the kitchen, is his interlocutor. The guy quickly looks around the windows, noticing a dark silhouette out of the corner of his eye, and freezes for a second. He's so ... close. He sits down on the snow-covered sidewalk, his back to the window. In order not to succumb to such a reckless desire to look into the dark room longer, looking at his mysterious interlocutor. But he can't afford it, that's not what's important right now.

 **NicknameNotFound:** Some guy outside my house.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I have no idea what it does. He's just sitting on the phone with his back to me.  
**NicknameNotFound:** Is he waiting for those guys?  
**NighTMAre:** if he was one of them, he would be watching the house  
**NighTMAre:** in any case, don't worry, everything will be fine, I promise  
**NighTMAre:** do you believe me?

The interlocutor is typing a message…

 **NicknameNotFound:** Absolutely.

*******

A group of four shows up in half an hour, and there are still no police officers. That's it...! That is one of the reasons why the overthrow of the government is a very useful and necessary, in a situation with L'manburg thing. When the authorities do not care about their people, is it not time to replace this power? During this half-hour, the Dream literally goes crazy, feels the look turned in the direction of his modest person, and also managed to read thousands of theories about what kind of strange guy is sitting at the interlocutor outside the window, and even get a photo of his own back.

 **NicknameNotFound:** They're coming.  
**NighTMAre:** Sit tight  
**NicknameNotFound:** THEY'RE IN FRONT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!  
**NighTMAre:** STOP PANICKING AND SIT DOWN. IT'S OKAY, THE POLICE ARE HERE.

And turns off the phone, getting up from the curb and slowly approaching the four of them, taken aback by the appearance of another incomprehensible person who was clearly heading in their direction. He feels the phone vibrate insanely in his pocket, which shows how much the guy is panicking, saying goodbye to his mortal life. But he don't need it now. Now is not the time for that.

\- Hey, hey, dear ones! - Dream, having come to a sufficient distance, raises his hands up and freezes, so as not to once again unnerve the guys who were already on edge. If you put a match to them, will explode.

\- What do you need? - the guy already winces. How rude.

— Here's the thing. My grandmother, God bless her, saw a strange guy in the window, who was wandering around the yard and looking in the windows, and, frightened, called the police, - the guy smiles guiltily. They say that he did not follow the old woman, and even in the dark he notices how instantly the faces of all four turn pale. — I'm sitting here, waiting for them to arrive, in order to explain the whole situation. But I don't know if they'll believe me. I don't think you need problems, so…

The guy hands the four of them some crumpled bills, which he fishes out of his pocket. In total, there is no more than two hundred dollars, but it is clear that these drunks are insanely happy with such a sum — there will be something to spend on alcohol.

\- A small compensation for the inconvenience caused. And again, I'm sorry, - Dream smiles amiably, until the guys turn away from him and go back to where they came from, exchanging phrases with each other. The guy immediately darkens, the assumed friendliness like water washes off his face. Yes, they will definitely return, but it is unlikely in the next few days. An attentive grandmother was clearly not part of their plans, and they are not fools to get into trouble. Probably… The guy pulls out his phone, quickly flipping through about twenty new messages, smiling as he reads the latest ones.

 **NicknameNotFound:** That guy is talking to them.  
**NicknameNotFound:** He doesn't seem to be one of them.  
**NicknameNotFound:** THEY'RE LEAVING.  
**NicknameNotFound:** He told them something and they left.  
**NicknameNotFound:** And he's still standing in front of my window.  
**NighTMAre:** i think you can turn on the lights. Once gone, they won't come back  
**NicknameNotFound:** Sure? That guy's still there…  
**NighTMAre:** if he wanted to hurt you, he would have done it in that half hour, calm down  
**NicknameNotFound:** I think you're right.

Dream exhales, turning to face the house. To the window, where stands the same person from the photos that the guy studied up and down. The other person did not leave the window. He just stood there and watched, his fists clenched. And Dream smiles at him, even though he can hardly see it because of the darkness on the street. I want to enter the house, but the guy knows that this is not worth doing, and it is unlikely that the interlocutor will be happy. But he want to. It's the first time they've been so close together. They stand fifteen meters away and look at each other. And then Dream, shaking off his stupor, abruptly turns around and leaves. In the distance, the police honk their horns — he'd better not be here when they arrive.

 **NicknameNotFound:** That guy stood there and stared at me for a few minutes, and now he's gone.  
**NicknameNotFound:** The police have arrived.  
**NicknameNotFound:** He apparently warned the four of them about the arrival of the cops and they left.  
**NighTMAre:** you see?  
**NighTMAre:** I told you, everything will be fine, and you've already started writing a will:)  
**NicknameNotFound:** I, by the way, bequeathed you my half-eaten sandwich!  
**NighTMAre:** thank you so much!  
**NicknameNotFound:** Be glad that at least something. You are so arrogant.  
**NicknameNotFound:** Nightmere…  
**NicknameNotFound:** Thank you for your concern, by the way.  
**NicknameNotFound:** I appreciate it, really.

Warmth spreads in the chest like honey, pleasantly enveloping the organs, when the guy is already sitting in the front passenger seat in a taxi, trying not to fall asleep with his eyes open and flipping through the correspondence with the interlocutor. And he doesn't regret the time he spent. It was worth it.

_The festival is four days away_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in a day, yes, I'm just an awesome pancake.


	9. Chapter 9

What time is it? George rolls over on his side, fumbling under the pillow for his phone. The temperature dropped, leaving only a sore throat, and a periodic cough that shook the guy during the night, when he had to get up and go to the kitchen to take a sip of water and not die from lack of air in his lungs. Unpleasant, of course, but tolerable. The screen glows in the dark of a room whose windows are curtained and haven't been opened in a very long time, except for yesterday's incident. A notification of several unread messages flashes to the top left, and the guy smiles stupidly at the time. Two o'clock in the afternoon. Yesterday, after that unfortunate four left, the police arrived, questioning, it seems, the entire area. They looked suspiciously at George, who nervously and somehow too quickly told them about a strange stranger who, - oh, what a coincidence! "I saw it from my window, too, and so did my grandmother, who dialed 911. However, the same grandmother was never found, and George tried not to give away the identity of this mysterious old woman too much. Since there was no evidence that the police were called by the guy, he was released, even after tormenting them with interrogations. He has nothing else to do, except to arrange phone jokes. So the guy fell asleep late at night. For a very long time he walked up and down the dark room, feeling the cold of the wooden floor under his feet, and every three minutes he looked out of the window, but the courtyard was still empty and quiet, as if people had not recently approached him, who were going to rob him, if not kill him, that's for sure.

Nightmere had wished him a pleasant dream and disappeared from the web two hours ago, the sky outside was beginning to lighten, and the guy was still sitting in the kitchen, his legs tucked under him, sipping hot tea that warmed and calmed his trembling body. Although, it would seem, so much time had passed, and the guy was still nervously looking out the window. The Internet, full of a variety of entertainment, could not give anything to the brunette, in order to calm him down a little. The boy was overcome by a wild fatigue caused by the disease, which literally threw him off his feet on the bed. The sleep was very restless and light, George constantly woke up, looked around, looked out of the window, and, taking a sip of water, fell back on the pillow.

 **NighTMAre:** are you asleep?  
**NighTMAre:** you wake up — write  
**NighTMAre:** how do you feel?  
**NicknameNotFound:** I could have been killed yesterday, so yes…  
**NicknameNotFound:** The feeling is not pleasant.  
**NighTMAre:** bu-bu-bu  
**NighTMAre:** they didn't kill you  
**NighTMAre:** it's okay, I'm here :)  
**NicknameNotFound:** Aren't you taking on too much?

George snorts as he gets out of bed and sets the phone aside as he begins to dress. When he returns, he sees a voice message in response to his question and grins nervously as he replays it. Voice messages from this mysterious guy were still rare, as if he was trying not to give too much information about himself, and therefore each such message was listened to several times. And those fifteen minutes of voice messages for the guy and at all became a real treasure. Let them get them and had to die from the temperature. It was worth it.

**«-Hah, nope. Admit it, if it weren't for me, you'd be dead.»**

George chuckles at the self-confidence in the other man's voice.

— It feels like you didn't call the police, but at least personally beat me off from a horde of pursuers, — the guy laughs into the microphone.

**«-Are you a princess, to save you from an evil dragon?»**

— Why not? - George lazily kneads his hands, crunches his fingers, stretches, trying to wake up the sleepy body that flatly refused to wake up and somehow function.

**«-What's that sound? Are you dying in there, or what?»**

— I'm trying to wake up, - the guy breathes indignantly. — I think someone broke into the house and beat me up while I was sleeping. I don't see any other explanation for why my body is so sore.

**«-Tortured yesterday with interrogations?»**

— Yes, terrible, - the guy, taking the phone in his hand, goes to the computer, left at night in sleep mode, and, clicking on the space bar, smiles, hearing familiar motives. "Oh My Love " from the band" The Score " instantly fills the room, and it seems to breathe a little easier. - Everyone is nervous about the upcoming festival. God forbid that anything should happen.

**«-Is the rat afraid of being caught in a rat trap? Funny…»**

**«-What kind of fun music, are you the hero of a musical?»**

—Yeah, I'm going to eat, grab my briefcase, and go to school — the guy laughs as he walks into the kitchen, still shaking his head to the music that's muffled from the room. — His fear is well-founded, considering how many percent of the population is against him as ruler.

**«-I think it will be over soon enough»**

—I don't think so. Everyone sits and is afraid. And those who say something superfluous-they never say anything more. You can say — a demonstrative execution. It's cruel, but clever. — George takes a sip of the mineral water, surprised that his words have become somewhat similar to the words of Tommy, who, with a smile from ear to ear, told him about their plan. — He will fall, if against him will rise up and force Schlatt to leave. And the person who wants to do this will need a lot of time and minions.

The interlocutor is silent for several minutes, although the message is read almost instantly. George purses his lips, not sure if it's worth saying. Especially over the phone. Even more so-it is not clear to whom, but, as stupid and childish as it may sound, he believes Nightmer. "Clinic» - hisses common sense, which, apparently, tried to get out of the binge, but, looking at his master, waved his hand at him and again took a sip of a bottle of something forty-degree.

**«- I don't think that in the case of Schlatt, the peaceful method will work, lost-boy»**

George chuckles nervously at the nickname that Nightmere coined because of his nickname. It is unusual to hear this, he is used to the text on the mobile screen. He wants to answer something, but does not have time — a second message arrives.

**«-He is not a man who is able to leave peacefully, he will kill anyone who tries to stand in front of him and his power»**

And George has no idea what to say to that. Do not want to agree with the interlocutor, because by agreeing, he recognizes Tommy's defeat in this war and, consequently, his own. And this is unpleasant. As a compromise, he breathes something like "probably..." into the microphone.

Nightmer's words make him uncomfortable, and he suddenly wants to talk to Tommy. He opens the list of conversations, noting with surprise that Tommy seemed to have the same desire. A few hours ago, while the guy was still asleep, several messages came from the teenager, which George did not immediately notice — the messages of the other person were his priority.

**Pimpinnit:** Hey, we're planning on having some fun Pimpinnit: Well, like, yeah)0))  
**Pimpinnit:** Can we come to you?  
**NicknameNotFound:** What time?  
**Pimpinnit:** What time will you let us in?  
**NicknameNotFound:** Come on.

*******

The instant noodles, boiled in boiling water, are unexpectedly hot, and the guy burns his tongue, hisses, and accidentally throws his fork to the side. He bends down, picks it up, and jumps! The doorbell rings too sharply, startling the guy. The latter, without letting go of the dangerous weapon from his hands, goes to the front door, opening it. A breathless blond man runs into the room, laughing as he runs into the kitchen (George watches him go, as well as his wet footprints left by his street shoes), and Willbur runs in after him, almost knocking the guy over with a guitar in a case, yells something menacingly to Tommy, and rushes after him. Tubbo, who was the last to enter the house, is trying to catch his breath by putting down a grocery bag on the floor. Apparently, he had to run for these two inadequacies from the store itself, and this, as George saw from his own experience, is a dubious pleasure. But despite his fatigue, he smiles at the owner of the house, who, judging by the shouts from the kitchen, is about to be destroyed, and the latter nods in greeting, hanging the guy's jacket on a hook.

— What happened? — A perfectly reasonable question, to which Tubbo just shrugs.

— Willbur bought some wine, and Tommy managed to get the bottle out of the bag while he wasn't looking. I don't know how he did it, but it was interesting enough to watch.

There's a sudden crash from the kitchen, and then (George's heart sinks) the sound of a plate hitting the stone floor. The guy exhales, looking at the fork in his hands. Apparently, he won't be able to eat today. Well, I didn't really want to.

Tommy, who had apparently caused the dishes to fall, was hurriedly trying to collect the noodles, the broth from them, and the fragments from the plate in one pile with a dirty shoe, and Willbur, who had set the tool case aside, was commanding him, in response to a deep growl from the teenager. Tubbo, who has entered the kitchen, immediately turns around, trying to get away, as if…

— Toby, help me, don't act like a piece of shit! — with universal sadness on his face, Tom still has to go back and, looking skeptically at the guy's attempts to collect all the dirt in a pile, he offers to take off his shoes first, for which he is mentally grateful to George, who sadly watched the destruction of his food.

— Tubbo, Tommy, you're cleaning up. You, — Willbur points to George, who is glowering at him. — Come with me. Are you twenty-one years old?

The guy exhales, watching as the pink bottle of wine flashes in the guy's hands. Didn't really want to drink, but on the other hand, I didn't want to throw out the guests either (although I should have). It's unlikely that the guys who decided to rob his house yesterday will be willing to risk breaking into his hut when he's not the only one there. And, in any case, even if they did decide to do it, they would be met by a drunken Willbur (and it is worth being afraid of him even when he is sober) and an inadequate teenager in the person of Tommy.

— Yes.

— You don't look it. Tubbo, return the bag, my food — the guy laughs, taking the groceries from the disgruntled guy and walking confidently towards the living room. George sighs, looking at the shoes that the guy still hasn't taken off. That's disgusting. — If you both clean up, maybe I'll pour you some juice.

— I don't want any juice! — Tommy snarls, picking up the pieces from the floor. Willbur shrugs.

— If you don't want to, don't. Tubbo will get more. You're already a violent drunk, what will happen to you if we pour you alcohol?

— I guess I'll have to build a new house, at the very least, — George breathes, nodding toward the guitar case that's left on the floor. — I forgot something.

— Oh, don't act like someone else. I'm here-, i'm all fucking kind and generous, and you can't even bring a guitar into the room? — feigned sigh Wilbur. He seems to be in a great mood. Moreover, he does not hang out on the phone without a break, as if he is finally interested in what is happening. Or was it the alcohol?

— That sounds threatening.

*******

— So? - George squints at the guy who's sitting on the couch, eating a couple of cubes of cheese he took out of the bag.

— What?

— Why are you here?

— You're so nervous. Aren't you tired of suspecting me of all the deadly sins? I'm trying to be friendly, I even bought you some wine, — the guy takes out a second bottle of the same kind from the bag and hands it to the hesitant guy. — Here, I'll give it to you. So, I'm trying to sort things out. I don't really fucking need it, but Tommy would feel better if he knew we were getting along, so stop being a piece of shit to me. I didn't do anything wrong for two them. And I won't.

— I don't have any glasses, I rarely drink anything, — Willbur shrugs and opens his bottle with a loud pop, taking a sip straight from his throat. — Oh, even so?

— Are you shy?

— No, it's just indecent somehow.

— Then don't drink, since it's the highest degree of barbarism for you to take a couple of sips from your throat.

George sighs and shakes his head, but he's tempted, and he pulls the heavy lid open with a pop and takes a small sip. Alcohol is a little bitter, but this bitterness is quite pleasant and not disgusting, so why not?

— You said you didn't do anything wrong to the two of them. You know that's not true, right? The fact that they are involved in all this can end very badly. The chances of their winning are minimal. I'll try to hide them if I have to, but I can't save them for too long, you know. So why? Why do you continue to support Tommy in his strange idea? You know perfectly well that it takes more than a year or two to execute his plan, right… - Willbur takes another sip, more than the last one, and gives a nervous shrug.

— I'm sorry, I can't tell you. I really don't want anything to happen to them, but I can't just leave the battlefield. Not now, you know?

— No, I don't understand any of your motives.

— Pf, no wonder. - George, with a sarcastic chuckle, reaches for the apples Willbur bought, but before he can touch them, there are shouts and loud bangs mixed with a crash from the kitchen. And the guy, sighing, thinks that Tommy will not live to see the festival at this rate. George's hands were already itching to strangle this asshole. How did he ever manage to find trouble so easily on his blond head?

— Pf, no wonder. - George, with a sarcastic chuckle, reaches for the apples Willbur bought, but before he can touch them, there are shouts and loud bangs mixed with a crash from the kitchen. And the guy, sighing, thinks that Tommy will not live to see the festival at this rate. George's hands were already itching to strangle this asshole. How did he ever manage to find trouble so easily on his blond head?

*******

How the three of them had managed to fix the table was a mystery. Tommy, as it turned out, was a master at supergluing anything he could, he had plenty of practice, Willbur nailed the legs perfectly (if a little crookedly), despite George's lack of a hammer, hammering the nails that fell out with a half-empty bottle, and Tubbo, who was standing in the corner, was praying. Either so that the table doesn't collapse again, or so that God finally frees him from the company of these assholes. George, who was watching from the doorway, didn't dare go into the kitchen, so he just nervously took sips from the bottle, watching the psychedelic scene around him. One plus — under the degree of killing someone did not want so much. Rather, there was even a desire to join.

It was another fifteen minutes before the floor was clean, the table was put back in its place, and the guys were happy with themselves and settled in the living room. Tommy agreed to the juice, realizing that nothing else was going to happen to him that day, cheekily snacking on the cheese and sausage cuts that Willbur had bought, while Tubbo tried to cheer up the sulky teenager. George leans back on the couch, his eyes closed and listening to the chatter in the background that hits the ears as if through cotton wool. Wine generally gets into the blood quickly enough, so the guy is even surprised that it took him only half an hour. This usually happened earlier. It becomes somehow lazy to move, you just want to lie down and not think about anything, listening to the conversations of the guests, and smile stupidly. The phone in his pocket vibrates, and the guy has to get up. Obviously, who the message came from, and not to answer him would be a pig. George gets up and, with a nod to the guests, says - I'll be right back, - goes into the kitchen.

 **NighTMAre:** why are you silent?

— My friends came to me, I'm sorry — the guy exhales into the microphone, laughs softly. — We sit and drink wine. Even Tommy's friend promised to play the guitar. He doesn't really look like a person who can play anything in this state, but oh well. It's still fun.

 **NighTMAre:** oh, how, and I was not invited

— Will you come? — the guy snorts sadly, looking at Tommy, who has come into the kitchen.

 **NighTMAre:** sorry, but no. Not this time

— That's what I mean. In addition, their presence gives me some kind of protection from those inadequates, you know. If I was alone, I probably would have called them myself, — Tommy looks at George in surprise, about to ask a logical question about what's going on, but the guy shakes his head, saying that now is not the time to answer questions.

 **NighTMAre:** don't get too drunk

— Ha, are you worried? — George smiles, guessing what the answer will be, and the smile only widens when he gets a "yes" in return. Tommy shakes his head, hisses something through his teeth about what a jerk the guy is, but doesn't he care?

Willbur, as it turned out, was a really good player. Even though he was drunk, his hands were almost perfectly touching the strings, producing a pleasant enough melody, which, however, soon enough began to get boring and he, like a street musician, began to offer to order songs. He had to search the phone for what they were supposed to sound like, but in the end it turned out to be quite similar to the original. And George liked the company, though he probably wouldn't have admitted it to himself if he'd been sober.

A few hours later, a second raid was made on the store (at the expense of Willbur, who received his salary and decided, it seems, to spend it in one day), led by Tommy, throwing everything that was crooked into the cart, and then merrily rushing back home with the purchases. Of course, he had so many things to eat that he could fill the entire refrigerator with them — he had to taste everything. George looked around nervously as he walked down the street, but there was no one there, even though it was getting dark. This, however, is for the best. Now is clearly not the time for robbers.

*******

— Talk to me.

George lay in bed, staring blankly at the burning phone screen. The interlocutor in the network.

 **NighTMAre:** ?

— Talk to me, please. I l-like your voice, — the guy stammers, but finishes the message. Tommy, Tubbo, and Willbur left half an hour ago. Or rather, Tubbo and Tommy were gone, and Willbur, who had bought brandy instead of wine, had to be dragged out on their shoulders.

**«-You're drunk»**

— I know, — the guy says, looking up at the ceiling. — Anything else?

**«-Go to bed, please»**

— I'm already lying down. Spend a few minutes of your time on me, is it difficult for you? I just love listening to you, — the guy laughs into the phone, thinking that it's not worth saying all this, that tomorrow he will be ashamed of it, but the body does not obey. Well, that's fine. Well, let it be.

**«-It's nice to talk to you, too, but you're not yourself, you know?»**

— That's some news, too. Just so you know, I'm not in my right mind e-even from the moment when I decided to answer someone who is not clear in a social network, the presence of which I did not even know. That's when I went crazy, just so you know. I sit here like a fool, talking to you day after day. I don't know where you are or who you are. I might like to drink this damn wine with you tonight. But where are you? Who the fuck knows where you are. Fuck knows if you really exist, or just, I don't know, a robot. Artificial intelligence, damn it.

**«-Are you out of your mind because of me? That sounds weird, just so you know. »**

— I don't care. You know what? Come to me. You have my address, - the guy breathes into the phone in frustration. - Come to my place and we'll get drunk together. Let's talk. I'll listen to your voice. Pretty cool, huh?

**«-I promise that one day I will come. But now, please, go to bed. You'll regret telling me tomorrow, won't you?»**

— Hah, I don't think so. Y-you know the saying that drunks are the most honest people. So, I'm telling you the whole truth, it's cool. And in general, this phrase about "you'll regret it" sounds like I'm going to kiss you.

**«-Please, lost-boy»**

— Oh, fuck you. Good night — the guy laughs into the phone. — I'll be waiting for you.

_The festival is three days away_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I have a little problem. Can I replace "lost-boy" with "waii"? The translator aggressively shoves the word in my face.


	10. Chapter 10

— Drunk, how much did you drink yesterday? — Blade hisses, looking at Willbur with the traces of a well-spent evening, who brushes him off like a pesky fly, trying to hide the bruises under his eyes and the trembling fingers.

— I don't know how I dared to drink. It's not enough to kill me for this, — the guy habitually sits down on his favorite chair, crossing his legs, and looks directly at the Technoblade, not seeing him in front of him, which he clearly does not like. — Do you care about my spiritual state, or the plan? If it's the second one, then tell me, why the fuck did I have to get out of bed and come here at ten o'clock in the morning?

— I don't have anything else to do but call you in just to discuss how you feel after your drinking, you know. It bothers me that one of the members of our, ahem, team is wandering around somewhere drunk, turning off the phone. Two days to go, we need people who are sane — Blade breathes, taking a sip from his mug. Willbur laughs hoarsely. And this laugh is strange, abnormal. Full of madness and, it seems, desperation?

— We're just planning a fucking bloodbath in the middle of town, and you're asking us to be sober? Are you serious? — Willbur gasps with laughter mixed with a fit of coughing, and Techno looks at the picture in disgust, slowly taking a step forward as he is quickly grabbed by the breasts and pulled closer. Willbur is grinning from ear to ear, and his lips are all dry and cracked, and blood is running from the corner of his mouth. And now, as he glares at the guy in front of him, Blade understands more than ever how much his friend has gone and how unpredictable his actions are. This madness even makes the guy scared for a second, but only for a second. Blade couldn't afford more than that — it wasn't his way. - You know what we should do, huh? We should have been so fucking drunk and spent the whole festival in this shack, not putting civilians in danger just because of our crazy Techno ideas. What the hell is a sober mind?

— Giving up, Will? We've come this far, and now you're a coward, are you serious?! — Blade flings him away like a kitten, and he falls back into his chair. He whines like a battered dog, clutching his head, almost pulling out his hair, and opening and closing his mouth, trying to breathe in the precious air that for some reason refused to get into his lungs. It takes a few minutes before he looks up again and looks at Blade, who takes a step back, apparently wary of the guy. His voice is low and hoarse, almost hissing out the words as he continues to smile. And it's scary, but fascinating at the same time. Techno for a second it seems that the guy was crying, but his eyes are completely dry, only one light splashes in them. A flame of madness, devouring everything in its path.

— I'm not giving up, Techno. I just don't want my friends to get hurt, they don't deserve it, you know, — Technoblade snorts sarcastically.

— This is a war for the future, Will. Including for their future. If they die, well, it will be a start for the lives of others, — Willbur growls and clenches his fists at the coldness in the familiar voice.

— They're fucking teenagers! Children! They didn't deserve to die due to the fact that the three abnormal itch to play heroes! — The slap burns his skin and he flinches, almost jumping back, instantly coming to his senses. The madness begins to fade from his eyes, and he glances around quickly, trying not to look at the enraged Blade. The case is rubbish.

— Aren't you disgusted with yourself? — Techno asks clearly and almost syllabically, trying to disguise his rage, if not hide it. — You don't care about some teenagers, but you don't care about all the other people who might die because of you. But they also have family, friends, and people who appreciate them. But you don't care about them, because you don't know them. You're a hypocrite, Willbur.

— And you? — the guy tilts his head, hiding his face in his hands-just to avoid looking at the person opposite, whose words, admittedly, shot unpleasantly in the chest, telling that the guy hit right on the spot.

— I don't care about anyone, Willbur. Not now, that's for sure. And you shouldn't be doing that. We have a goal that I intend to accomplish, and you were kind of going to do it with me, so... — Willbur looks down at the hand that's outstretched to him, blue veins bulging. — Stop being such a wuss. We'll do it. Either the day after tomorrow, or never.

The guy freezes, wondering if this game is worth the candle, but he exhales and holds out his hand. He can't give it up halfway. He shouldn't do that.

— Funny, isn't it? — Willbur jumps in surprise. The Technoblade had left the house on business that only he knew about, so for a moment the guy forgot that there were not two tenants in the house, but three. Bickering was not uncommon in the house, but Dream usually didn't contribute to it. Will wasn't even sure he was listening to them at all. He didn't care about the roommates ' plan, or the roommates themselves. Blade even asked several times (usually in a rude way) if there was anything in the world that the guy didn't care about, which the guy snorted, joked, and again plunged into his laptop, which he had brought on the very first day and without which, it seems, he didn't even go to the bathroom. So the fact that the blonde decided to break away from his technique and pay attention to their conversation, I must say, was a surprise. — He called you a hypocrite. This is ridiculous.

— Wow, so you do listen to us sometimes, don't you? Pleasantly surprised, you know, — Willbur chuckles, but he listens with interest to the words of the guy who has once again put on his eternal mask. For Will, the question was, why would do that in an environment of people who know what you look like, well, fuck it. Everyone has their own cockroaches in their heads, and Willbur wasn't going to study the insects in this strange programmer's head. He didn't deal with his own problems.

— I always listen to you, just so you know. Just for the most part, your conversations are just childish nonsense of two people who went, which I do not really want to comment on. This is, at least, a waste of your own time, and, at most, another reason to be disappointed that I did not leak information about you to the right place. That's why I don't say anything. If I say something nasty, you'll be offended, — Dream laughs, watching Willbur's face turn red with anger out of the corner of his eye. Well, this is better than the craziness that was a minute earlier. At the very least, angry Will is unlikely to attack him with his fists, knowing that because of this, they can have problems with Techno.

— And now why the fuck did you open your mouth? I'd be sitting on my laptop, just taking a nap, as usual. No, decided to insert a word! — Dream exhales, lowering the lid of the laptop.

— I actually wanted to support you, just so you know, — Willbur says with a sarcastic chuckle.

— Really?

— Yeah, imagine that. I wanted to say a few words about your conversation. It made me laugh that he called you a hypocrite just because you want to save someone. This is true… In the style of people, you know? — The guy freezes, then shakes his head, and Dream has to explain. — A person tends to take care of those who mean something to him. This is quite normal. To be honest, I have always been killed by the fact that society condemns a person who saved his friend, and not two strangers. Yes, those two are alive, too, but why the fuck do you have to save them when you can save your friend? This is not hypocrisy, it's just properly prioritized in the direction of the value of someone's life. And it's perfectly normal that you want to protect your friends, but Blade is right, too. You've come too far to stop there. Canceling the attack on the festival won't solve anything, you know that. Did I understand correctly that when you were talking about teenagers, you were also talking about the kid who was spying on Schlatt at your request?

— Uh-huh, — the guy says in a barely audible voice, his lips pressed into a thin line, but Dream hears and nods, as if this is the answer he expected from the other person. Willbur sometimes had the feeling that Dream knew everything there was to know about everyone. And it was scary. And annoying.

— What happens to him if Schlatt doesn't fall at the festival, Will? How quickly will they find a rat in their ranks? You know you can't protect him in that case, don't you? — Willbur pauses, listening warily. He doesn't like the guy's words, even though he knows he's telling the truth. — Then they'll find you and all your friends who are somehow involved in this plan. What will happen then?

— They'll find you, too, Dream, — the boy whispers. The language refuses to listen and the phrase that should have sounded threatening is more like a child's babble. Dream laughs, and the laughter that comes out from under the mask sounds strange, like the laughter of a driven antagonist from cartoons who tells his insidious plan.

— Of course they'll find me, Will, of course. After all, I will be the one who, if anything, will provide them with all the necessary information about both the plan and the personalities included in the plan. Am I right in assuming that one of the people you care so much about is that kid named Tubbo? You think I'm not going to go out on the second one, huh?

Willbur can feel the cold sweat running down his temple, almost burning his skin. He wants to say something, but only opens and closes his mouth, turning pale. Only now, it seems, does it begin to dawn on him in all its glory how much of a losing situation they are in. The man sitting on the couch, for no reason at all, if something went wrong as he wanted, was ready to mercilessly send the guys to jail. And this is the best case scenario. Will was sure they'd all be killed if they found out what they were up to.

— You wouldn't dare…

— Are you taking me on weakly? — Will can't see it, but he's sure the guy raised an eyebrow. The guy shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. — That's great. Techno is right, stop being a rag and go to the end, once you've started. I don't think anyone you know will be happy if they have to die because of you, huh.

— But they'll hate me, you know that, — the guy slowly settles back into the chair from which he jumped up a minute ago. My back is strained to the limit, my shoulders are shaking, and I have a nasty lump in my throat, although I don't want to cry.

— Better hate than death, don't you think? — Dream laughs softly, and it seems like a laugh.… Fake? There is definitely no fun in it, rather-bitterness.- You knew what you were doing, Willbur. This is not the time to back down.

— You knew what you were doing. Did we have a choice? — and Dream laughs again.

*******

— What's wrong with you? — Techno, who has stumbled into the house, looks in surprise at the drooping Willbur, who, with his head in his hands, is swaying from side to side, looking at the wall, but judging by the glass eyes, he does not see it at all. — What's wrong with him, Dream?

— Pfft, what were you thinking when you were yelling at a man with a hangover? Don't you feel ashamed of yourself? — Dream snorts, not even turning his head in the direction of the guys, as usual hovering in his laptop.

— Not funny, what the fuck is going on?

— It's all right, - Will suddenly comes to life, shaking his head and smiling tightly. The guy in the mask is slightly rotated in the direction of the interlocutors, and Wilbur swallows the lump in his throat. Not before that. — I was just thinking." Relax. I'm sorry for the words I said, I was a little… out of my mind? In any case, everything is fine now.

— You look pale.

— You don't give a fuck about my fortune? I thought it was just the plan that mattered — " the guy hisses, with a kind of resigned smile, and this forced smile, to her credit, is frightening. — I'm always pale.

— Leave the man alone, he's sick without you, — the guy laughs, his eyes catching the green dot next to the name of the interlocutor. Went online-after all, a drunkard. The mask becomes somehow uncomfortable and hot, and the guy pulls it off, continuing to smile, looking at the phone. The interlocutor will obviously hear jokes about all the things that he said foolishly, being drunk.

— Why are you smiling? — Willbur looks suspiciously in his direction, which the guy just shrugs off, completely losing any interest in these two people. Not up to them now.

— You're not the only one who decided to get drunk on the Thursday before the working day. A friend of mine came up with the same idea. He even invited me over for a drink.

— How lucky he was that you didn't agree, if he knew... — the blonde only snorts irritably in response, without commenting on Will's statements, who holds a grudge against him. He wasn't going to be friends with his, ahem, colleagues.

**NighTMAre:** wake up?)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** For a long time. I'm kind of out of sick leave today.…  
 **NighTMAre:** oh, right. Why are you online, and not for your papers?  
 **NighTMAre:** how do you feel, by the way? I think you had a lot of fun last night…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Took a lunch break.

Lunch? The guy looks at the time in the lower-left corner in surprise. It's true. 12:37. How long had they been arguing with Willbur? It seemed like three minutes at the most. Or did the time pass so quickly as they sat in silence, each thinking his own thoughts?

**NicknameNotFound:** I have a headache. I only drank two bottles of wine, sort of, but it felt like I was swallowing cognac in one gulp.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I feel like a schoolboy whose parents poured a glass of champagne for the first time and who, staggering, hit the battery, and the next morning thought it was a hangover.  
 **NighTMAre:** your fantasy never ceases to amaze me, just so you know  
 **NighTMAre:** do you really like my voice?

The guy is silent for several long minutes, but Dream is not a fool to break this silence. It is necessary to let the guy realize that all those voice messages that were sent to him in a drunken delirium were carefully listened to and remembered (and saved to the computer in case he suddenly wants to erase them). After about three minutes, he still answers, and Dream only smiles harder, his smile seeming to strain Techno and Will, who were exchanging some neutral phrases at the other end of the room. And, to tell the truth, absolutely everything is the same for them.

**NicknameNotFound:** Can we just forget about it? I'm really ashamed.  
 **NighTMAre:** why? This, I must admit, was quite cute  
 **NighTMAre:** although strange  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Cute? Are you serious? I sat there drunk and told you how crazy I was the day I met you. What the hell is so cute about that?  
 **NighTMAre:** you sat there and told me you wanted to have a drink with me  
 **NighTMAre:** what do you like my voice  
 **NighTMAre:** that you haven't been yourself since you answered me  
 **NighTMAre:** it was eerily cute, just so you know  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Stop bullying me!  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm absolutely serious  
 **NighTMAre:** i think I can come over for a drink. I don't think, of course, that in the next week or two, but…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** are you serious right now?  
 **NighTMAre:** yeah  
 **NighTMAre:** you still haven't answered the question, by the way  
 **NighTMAre:** do you really like my voice?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** …  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Yes.

The green light that indicates that the interlocutor is online lights up in gray "offline", but Dream expected that, having answered this question, the interlocutor will simply run away, embarrassed by the answer. Moreover, he was surprised that he gave this very answer, and did not leave the network, just seeing the question. The blonde closes the laptop's lid, tapping it with his fingernails, thinking.

  
*******

Must admit that the fact that his lost-boy drinks it is not clear with whom pissed the guy off to the horror. Wanted to tear and throw, but he just bit his bleeding lips, looking at the icon that says that the user has not logged in to the network for several hours. Dream even thought that it was worth agreeing to the guy's offer and coming to him to make sure that everything was fine with him and his drinking buddies were adequate people. In fact, the blond guy had no idea who the other guy might be bulking up with. Of the more or less close acquaintances that the guy knew about, there was only an unbalanced teenager, and a couple of colleagues from work. The list ended at three or four people. But the guy mentioned in the correspondence some friend of Tommy, who was with them, and in a state of strong alcohol intoxication. And how many of them, such acquaintances, are still around? And what are the chances that they won't do anything to the guy?

And then he texted him at about three in the morning. Just out of the blue. Just wrote, asking to talk to him, praising his voice. And it was so pleasant that the guy for a second thought that he was also under something alcoholic. Strange waves of heat passed through my body, and began to breathe somehow… Easier? Lost-boy is here and, judging by his desire to communicate and because he writes to him at all, nothing terrible has happened

**«- Ha, are you worried?»**   
**« - Yes»**

Too honest, too open. But the guy, being under a degree, did not understand this. Nor did he seem to realize in the morning that Dream had literally confessed his weakness to him. Something he would never admit. That he's worried about some stranger on the net. The guy quickly finds the message he sent in a fit of some ... despair, freezes for a second, and then deletes it from the interlocutor. It's better for him not to know. True, the reason sarcastically suggests that the guy was not so drunk then that he would forget something like this and, if necessary, would be able to use it, but…

_Dream is well aware that his lost-boy will not engage in blackmail. They are too different. And it makes me feel kind of sad. Should continue to communicate with him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, my fucking God. Thanks for the 1000 likes I'll drink to that on the weekend.  
> and thank you for your bookmarks, kudos and comments, it gives me motivation and makes me happier.  
> you are the best pancakes)


	11. Chapter 11

Admittedly, George had long since given up on the idea of a good morning. Any morning when, after a rest, you need to get up in a cozy bed, and then drag yourself to an unknown place and for no apparent reason, for the guy was a real test and he, setting the alarm for half past seven, already hated the next day in advance. Today, everything was much worse than usual. His head ached, as if he had drunk not just a few bottles of wine, but at least a healthy barrel of whiskey. Old age, what is it? A friend of his in his school years, who periodically dropped by for lessons after a regular party, often said that he was too young to suffer from a hangover. And if she trusted him, it would be time for George to book a place in the cemetery, have grandchildren, and buy a rocking chair to sit in front of a nonexistent fireplace. The guy snorts softly at this thought, and his head, deciding to fuck up the owner, gives off a dull pain. What the fuck?! It would be necessary to check with Tommy if he had been hit by accident (or on purpose, he wasn't a hundred percent sure about his guests) with something heavy on the head, because there was no other explanation for why he felt so bad.

Have to force myself to get up, stretch my stiff limbs, and, swearing through my teeth, drag myself to the bathroom, before throwing a few tablets of antipyretic into my mouth, just in case. If the temperature rises at work, then he will have to finish the shift with it, which he absolutely did not want to do. For the second time in the morning, the guy feels like a grandfather when, after quickly rinsing in the shower and hastily drying his hair with a towel (in fact, just running it through his hair several times), he puts the pills in the pockets of a new jacket. The disease was clearly still there, and George didn't expect it to happen for another week, so he had to be prepared to take the pills bravely and continue writing the monthly financial report, which, for some unknown reason, had been blamed on their department. That's it…

When he leaves the house, he double-checks to make sure the door is locked. To come home and find that the furniture is no longer there is a dubious pleasure, because in this regard, the guy is cautious, although earlier, despite the troubled area, he often neglected this necessary action. George hoped that the guys who had followed him back then would decide to choose an easier victim, and it was worth taking some measures to do that. At least close the door behind you. The bus, which the guy barely manages to jump on, is stuffy and crowded. People of all ages crowded into the salon. Schoolchildren, students, handymen. He almost steps on a woman's foot as he tries to squeeze through to the window rail. To his great surprise, it turns out to be easier to do this than usual, moreover-even no venerable old lady yelled at him, so, you can say, the assault on the bus was more or less successful. Leaning back against the handrail, the guy pulls out his cell phone, thinking that it's still a long time to go, and it would be worth wishing morning to Nightmere, if he is already (or still) not sleeping. Opens the correspondence, quickly running through it with eyes that instantly climb to the forehead. Why the fuck were they texting at three in the morning? The guy clearly remembered the messages sent during the day-of course. It was hard to call them any bad ones, from which the memory would try to close, destroying the memories in the head. And he hadn't been drunk at the time — he'd only taken a couple of sips of the liquid, which burned pleasantly in his throat and felt heavy in his head. But he certainly didn't remember writing anything at night. He remembered going to bed when the teenagers dragged a drunken and struggling Willbur out into the street, and he remembered walking with a confident and steady gait, brushing against the opposite walls, until he reached the bedroom and collapsed into bed when it was no later than one o'clock in the morning. Maximum of two.

The guy grunts in surprise, reaches into his pocket and pulls out the headphones, which he has barely dug out among the numerous packs of pills. They were bought quite recently, about the time when the guys started communicating via voice messages. Maybe a little earlier. At work, of course, George didn't use them — he wasn't supposed to. But while driving to the office or back — why not? He turns on the first message he sent to the guy, making sure he wasn't hacked –the drunk and sleepy voice was clearly his. And, damn it, it would have been better if it had been hacked. The drunken organism, needing communication, went to the only person who provided this very communication. A man who clearly hadn't expected such a heartfelt confession at three in the morning. And George, apparently, did not care at all about it, and he continued to climb up to the guy with incoherent, slow speech, asking him to talk, then to come and drink with him. "Please, waii" sounds somehow muffled, and the guy is horrified to think that he disappointed the interlocutor with this dialogue, showing himself from a shoddy side. He clutches the phone tightly in his hand, startled by the message that says that Nightmer was online a few hours ago, and does not know what to do. It's worth writing to the guy and apologizing for it, but George has no idea what he needs to write, so he exhales and puts his cell phone in his pocket, having previously turned on some music in his headphones. He was not a music lover, preferring to listen to his favorite songs only at home through the speakers, but now more than ever he wanted to distract himself from the noise in the salon, and think about something else. Or someone? The guy snorts, even though he knows it's not fucking funny.

**«- Ha, are you worried?»**   
**«- Yes»**

*******

He's not himself at work. Barely restrains the constant desire to look at the phone lying on the desktop, but, exhaling, each time it suppresses. The head of the middle-aged department, having once again quarreled with her husband, is all on edge, and it is more expensive to annoy her even more by breaking the rules. She was already terribly dissatisfied with him, how dare he get sick and take these two days off from work! George even had the feeling that he was at school, and she was a teacher scolding him for homework that he hadn't been given. Nikki just smiled sympathetically and patted the guy on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up, and he looked at the bedlam on the table, almost crying. As the number of required paperwork grew, George realized that he would have to return to work tomorrow, Saturday, and maybe come back after the festival to get everything done (or at least try to) by Monday. From constantly checking the data, his eyes start to water and ask for either a rest or to poke them to hell, and the guy exhales, leaning back in his chair exhausted. If you believe the clock in the lower right corner, the guy in the office no more than four hours, and he is already creeping into his head that life as a homeless tramp is not so bad, and it's time to quit work and go on a trip to the landfills of the city.

Nikki, noticing the guy's glassy gaze fixed on the screen, waves her hand in front of his face, bringing him to his senses.

\- Go wash up and eat, you're all gray, - the girl breathes, nodding her head toward the stairs, hinting that the guy should go to the dining room on the first floor. He shakes his head.

— I need to work, I have little time left to finish this all, - the guy pointedly looks around the papers on the table, and the girl, nodding understandingly, suddenly pushes the computer chair of the guy on which he is sitting away from the table with her foot.

— You haven't recovered from your illness yet. If you don't rest, you'll faint again, and I don't want to drag you to the infirmary again. If anything, I'll cover it — the girl waves her hand when the guy rises unsteadily from the chair. - Go on, go on, eat a little. It's good for you.

The guy gets up from his chair, gives Nikki a grateful nod, and walks briskly out of the room. He goes down to the first floor, quickly passing several changing rooms and a smoking room, which is a room with glass walls, chairs, and a couple of hoods, and enters a small dining room that is empty at such an early hour. The guy does not take food — there is no appetite. He sits down at the farthest table, trying to recover, closes his tired eyes, but then opens them again — it won't take long to fall asleep, and this is clearly not something he should do right now. George hesitates before pulling out his phone and entering into a conversation with a single person. Again, he runs his eyes over their "correspondence" from yesterday. There is no desire to listen to his voice messages, he has already memorized them by heart, and that makes it much worse. There is no desire or strength to write anything, because George is already thinking of turning off the phone, going to wash and go back to work, when he suddenly notices with horror that the guy has gone online. And he didn't just stop by — he was fucking texting him.

**NighTMAre:** wake up?)

The guy exhales. Nightmere had decided to talk to him, so the messages hadn't really stuck in his head. At least once George could still write to him — the interlocutor did not send him to the blacklist, as a bored user. That means something, at least.

**NicknameNotFound:** For A Long Time. I'm kind of out of sick leave today.…  
 **NighTMAre:** oh, right. And why are you online, and not for your papers?  
 **NighTMAre:** how do you feel, by the way? I think you had a lot of fun last night…

Fun is not the right word. The feeling that cats had shat in his mouth did not disappear, and his head still reminded him of itself with flashes of pain, and the guy promised himself that he would stop drinking alcohol, which he already drank quite rarely. He didn't like the fact that he had to worry about what the other person thought of him the next morning.

**NicknameNotFound:** Took a lunch break.

The guy almost didn't lie. He didn't want to tell how worried he was that he'd disappointed Nightmere, so he'd taken a break just to wash up, dig into their correspondence, and decide what to do. He'll get it wrong. He'd already said enough yesterday.

**NicknameNotFound:** I have a headache. I only drank two bottles of wine, sort of, but it felt like I was swallowing cognac in one gulp.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I feel like a schoolboy whose parents poured a glass of champagne for the first time and who staggered, hit the battery, and the next morning thought it was a hangover.  
 **NighTMAre:** your fantasy never ceases to amaze me, just so you know  
 **NighTMAre:** do you really like my voice?

The guy suddenly throws a fever, and he doesn't know if it's from the guy's words, or because of the temperature that has risen despite the antipyretic. George is sure that the guy is mocking him now, and nervously looks at the mobile screen, which stands out brightly in the dim corner of the dining room, the light from the dim lamps did not reach it. It takes him a few minutes of time before he starts typing a reply message.

**NicknameNotFound:** Can we just forget about it? I'm really ashamed.  
 **NighTMAre:** why? This, I must admit, was quite cute  
 **NighTMAre:** although strange

Cute?.. Where the fuck is cute?! The guy feels like his whole face is burning, like he's been dipped in boiling water. Knightmare mocking him or something? How could the ramblings he was spouting at three in the morning even be called cute?

**NicknameNotFound:** Cute? Are you serious? I sat there drunk and told you how crazy I was the day I met you. What the hell is so cute about that?  
 **NighTMAre:** you sat there and told me you wanted to have a drink with me  
 **NighTMAre:** what do you like my voice  
 **NighTMAre:** that you haven't been yourself since you answered me  
 **NighTMAre:** it was eerily cute, just so you know

He's definitely mocking. Absolutely. The guy realized this immediately after the first message. It's kind of unpleasant, even though common sense, waking up from a binge, for some unknown reason yells at George to stop acting like a blind idiot. What's wrong with that?

**NicknameNotFound:** Stop bullying me!  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm absolutely serious

The guy freezes for a second. "Absolutely serious"? Not true.

**NighTMAre:** i think I can come over for a drink. I don't think, of course, that in the next week or two, but…

George snorts nervously, looking at the screen, feeling a tingling sensation in his fingertips. He wants to write something, but he has no idea what it is, so he just quickly licks his lips. Had he taken his drunken chatter seriously? It feels nice and somehow warm, but George, for the sake of his own peace of mind, decides to clarify whether the guy was joking. Make sure it.

**NicknameNotFound:** Are you serious right now?  
 **NighTMAre:** yeah  
 **NighTMAre:** you still haven't answered the question, by the way  
 **NighTMAre:** do you really like my voice?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** …

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know that he should even respond to such a thing, he only feels how his heart is trying hard to break his chest with its pounding, and this does not make it any easier. The interlocutor does not hurry, on the contrary-is silent, as if he does not expect an answer from him. It's as if he knows that he won't get a yes or no answer. And it makes George feel kind of sick. He gets up from his desk, goes out into the corridor, inhaling the stale air with a strange pleasure, climbs the stairs to the floor of his office and freezes, his hand on the door handle and is about to open it. No, that won't do…

**NicknameNotFound:** Yes.

The guy feels like a complete idiot when he walks back into the office and goes to his workplace. Nikki looks at him questioningly, but he only shakes his head, and she purses her lips, deciding that this is not the right time for questioning. In the distance, you can see the silhouette of one person, whose appearance threatened problems, if they now start discussing something that does not directly concern the work. And no one wanted any problems.

*******

— Who do you correspond with? - Nikki, already getting dressed to go home, looks at the guy who, when the boss left, reached into his mobile, but, alas, there was no response to his confession.

— I didn't correspond, I just checked, - the guy tiredly leans back in his chair and yawns, not hiding his fatigue. His eyes were starting to water, but if he continued to work at the same pace, it was possible that he would be able to leave earlier than usual on Saturday, and that was good. It remains to force your body to fill out a few dozen more papers and then, after checking the amounts in them, enter everything in the general form.

\- Oh, come on, I saw it. You walked into the office with your cell phone in your hand. So, with who? - Nikki grins at the guy cowering in the chair. - With a girl?

\- What?! - the guy's face is red as a poppy, and he looks around quickly, looking for escape from this annoying person, but the office is almost completely empty, and the people who remain in it do not care about what is happening around, George is not the only one with a mouth full of worries. — It's not a girl, it's just a pen pal, nothing more.

\- Really? - The girl chuckles sarcastically. — What did you talk about with him when you left for lunch, that you red came back?

\- I didn't…

— I wanted to ask you back then, - the girl interrupts the incoherent attempts to explain, quickly checking whether all the things were put in her purse. — But you didn't let me do it.

— I just apologized to him, because yesterday I behaved like someone weird, wrote all sorts of nonsense — the guy does not raise his head, looking confusedly at the pencil that he turns in his hands. - Nothing like that, really…

\- Well, at least you talk to someone after work, that's good, - Nikki smiles, and the guy decides to look up at her, pursing his lips. — I thought you were always sitting alone and playing computer games.

\- Actually, that's pretty much what happens, — the guy laughs. — It's been a little more fun these last few days, but in general…

\- Don't overdo it, I don't want to work with a ghost, — smiling, waving goodbye to him, the girl and, loudly clicking her heels on the old tile, goes towards the exit, leaving the cheerful guy alone. With a sigh, he rides the chair back to the desk, mentally dividing the papers into two piles, one of which should be finished today and the other tomorrow.

*******

A guy comes out of the building when it's already dark outside. The guard just shakes his head sympathetically, looking after him and saying good night, to which George smiles wearily and nods. Don't have the strength to speak. To tell you the truth, he's barely moving. It feels like he's been drinking again. My body is wobbly, and my head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton wool, like a cloth doll. On the bus, he almost falls into the empty seat at the very end of the cabin, swaying from side to side. Some venerable old lady looks at him suspiciously and moves her lips, muttering something inaudibly, but now the guy does not even have the strength to try to make a more presentable appearance, because he very skillfully depicts a spreading puddle, burying his forehead in the cold glass and watching the colorful lights of the city pass by. Want to sleep, but the guy keeps his eyes open by force, despite the fact that his stop is the final one. Thirty minutes of sleep will bring nothing but fatigue and a sore back, dissatisfied with the inconvenience of a hard chair. Have to take out phone on last breath and, nervously glancing at the last message, write to Nightmare that the guy is going home. He has no idea why he does this every time, but the other person doesn't mind, so George insists on telling Tom about his movements. In any case, if anything, Nightmere will have a rough idea of where his body is lying, if he doesn't write a message. Maybe even he will bring flowers to the grave.

**NighTMAre:** you're killing yourself in this job, you know?  
 **NighTMAre:** stop it. You have a work schedule, follow it. Working twelve hours a day won't do you any good  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I know about the work schedule, but it unfortunately doesn't work that way.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** If you don't want to be kicked out after another check — you have to clench your teeth and, forgetting about your personal life and your own needs, plow like a horse.  
 **NighTMAre:** it's illegal, sort of  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Nobody cares. Who should complain to? A good employee is a good one, and he is ready to start working at any time. At three in the morning they will call — you must answer, otherwise you will lose their confidence.  
 **NighTMAre:** what a mess  
 **NicknameNotFound:** And don't tell me.  
 **NighTMAre:** if anything, you can complain to me, I'm here:)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Dubious consolation…  
 **NighTMAre:** hey!

George laughs, clutching his cell phone. The disgruntled old lady had left the bus, muttering something, at the last stop, and so he was left alone. He hesitates for a moment before, with his hand outstretched and his fingers spread, he takes a picture of the empty car, which he sends to the other person along with his hand.

**NicknameNotFound:** But look how empty the bus is. Beauty. There is no crowd.  
 **NighTMAre:** you are absolutely an old man, sending me someone else's photos…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What?..  
 **NighTMAre:** only elderly people in my memory were so happy about an empty bus  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Well, why did you ruin the moment?  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm sorry)  
 **NighTMAre:** send me more of your hands, they look beautiful  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why do you need my hands?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm scared…

The guy laughs, looking at his hand. Hand like hand, nothing unusual. Except that the nails should be cut, too uneven — at work gnawed. It's only a short distance to the stop, and the guy gets up, walking to the door, almost collapsing on the next turn. He nods gratefully to the startled driver, who is glad that he can finally go home, and leaves the car straight into the night.

**NighTMAre:** why are you being greedy?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Pfft, I'm not… I'll send it to you later, and I'm walking down the street to the house.  
 **NighTMAre:** agreed  
 **NighTMAre:** be careful

*******

The yard, to the boy's surprise, is quiet and deserted. Which is surprising, considering the day of the week. Usually at this time, the whole street is noisy and celebrating the upcoming weekend, and then silence. And it's annoying. However, the reason for the abrupt silence, the guy notices soon enough — a police car, several ambulances and a cordoned-off house. Apparently, one of his neighbors has already celebrated the upcoming weekend, and with a good such scale. The guy winces as he quickly passes the house and the onlookers gathered around the scene to see what happened. And George, to tell you the truth, doesn't care at all. All he wants is to walk home safely, wrap himself in a blanket, and never again have contact with the outside world, which stubbornly continues to break his weak mental organization. To communicate to him and Nightmare is enough.

The desire to sleep, damn it, disappears as soon as the guy crosses the threshold of his own kitchen, in order to take a few sips of tea and fall into bed. While the kettle is boiling, the guy quickly changes into a sweater he recently bought in the store, washes his face and decides that it's probably too early to move his body towards the bedroom. The hot drink burns pleasantly, warming the frozen body. Is there another heating failure, or is this body still unable to move away from the street? He pulls out his phone, stubbornly ignoring his stomach, which insists on eating, and goes into his favorite correspondence.

**NicknameNotFound:** I'm home.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Everything is quiet, calm.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** True, a few houses away from mine, it seems that someone was killed. Friday, damn it.  
 **NighTMAre:** what?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Well, there's an ambulance, police, a cordoned-off house.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** In any case, but no one will definitely come to me today.  
 **NighTMAre:** it's not funny…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm not kidding, unfortunately.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Did you ask why the fuck I work so hard? For example, in order to get out of here somewhere where, walking through the streets, I will not listen to voices with horror, fearing that I will once again be robbed, putting a blade to my neck.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** That's for that.  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm sorry…  
 **NighTMAre:** have you been robbed?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Twice a year of moving. Then I was more carefree, so it turned out.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Thank you for writing to me.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I feel safer with you  
 **NighTMAre:** oh…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** By the way!

The guy picks up a half-empty cup and takes a picture, a little smudged, but both the hand and the mug are perfectly visible on it, so George, smiling, almost instantly sends the photo to Nightmere, who instantly, as always, looks at it.

**NicknameNotFound:** You asked for a picture of a hand, take it.  
 **NighTMAre:** i was joking, but okay, i don't mind)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Send your hand.  
 **NighTMAre:** why do you need it?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** And you why?)  
 **NighTMAre:** Ookay, it's reasonable

George looks in surprise at the last message of the interlocutor, and then — how mockingly slowly the photo sent by Nightmere to him is downloaded. Just a hand with fingers spread out against the background of a laptop screen that glows brightly in the dark, but the guy for some reason, as if enchanted, looks at the photo in search of the slightest details that can say something about the interlocutor other than that he has hands.

**NighTMAre:** will that do?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Your hands are bigger than mine.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Send a photo of the face.  
 **NighTMAre:** nope  
 **NighTMAre:** i can send my leg  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why do I need a photo of your foot? ..  
 **NighTMAre:** well, you never know, suddenly you are a foot fetishist  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I wonder what you look like.

George raises his eyebrows in surprise when he sees to photo. Did it work? He waits a few seconds for the photo to load, then exhales in frustration, starting to type a message, completely forgetting about the tea cooling in the mug.

**NicknameNotFound:** I don't need your legs!  
 **NighTMAre:** sorry, I thought you'd like it (  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Don't send me anything but a face, please.  
 **NighTMAre:** there could be an obscene joke, but it will not be  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What?  
 **NighTMAre:** no, it doesn't matter

George reads the latest messages and blushes for the umpteenth time that day, grinning nervously. What's wrong with this guy?

_The festival is two days away_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck sorry for the long delay of the chapter.  
> this chapter is pretty sweet and thank you for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

**NicknameNotFound:** You know, on the one hand, it's my own fault that I got sick and lay in bed for three days.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** But on the other hand, what the fuck? I used to take sick leave, why should I be dragged to this wretched office for some paperwork that, frankly, nobody fucking needs?  
 **NighTMAre:** and good morning to you  
 **NighTMAre:** what, a lot of work after the illness?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Could have been more, but damn, how infuriating!  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I don't want to go there, I want to sleeeeep…  
 **NighTMAre:** come on, tomorrow's the day off :)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Just so you know, this report was hung up on us just because of this weekend. The main office is busy preparing the city for the festival, and all the paperwork is piled on us.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Brr, I wish it was over soon.  
 **NighTMAre:** how pessimistic

The guy laughs, sitting at the table and happily eating instant noodles, whose brother was recently killed by Tommy. And not only did he kill — he smeared all it internal organs on the floor, along with the glass from the broken plate. So, as if that wasn't enough, he dragged dirt from the street. The teenager couldn't even imagine how lucky he was that Willbur was there, who instantly realized what direction their meeting was going, and dragged the guy into the room to drink. Otherwise, it is likely that Tommy might not have lived to see the festival. And the revolutionaries sought to avoid bloodshed. Even if it meant losing a few bottles of wine, and straining Tubbo, who had to scold and clean up the mess his friend had made.

The guy exhales nervously. There wasn't anything supernatural planned for tomorrow, Tubbo just had to talk to a couple of bigwigs who were ready to switch sides, but there was still time.… Fearfully. Afraid both for life and for the lives of teenagers who have decided to play as adults and change the world. And for the better? George doesn't know, doesn't know what he'll do if something goes wrong. Yes, an approximate escape plan has been drawn up, but this is not an indicator of anything. There were so many circumstances that could have caused things to go wrong, so many forks and paths. And it was frightening, but fascinating at the same time. For a second, the guy felt that he was in some kind of novel, in which his choice depends on how events will develop further, and then he remembers that this is not a game, but real life, and on some of the paths he chose, corpses are lying, turning the snow red. And whose is still a mystery. How many roads does his body lie on, taking the last breath of his life? And Tommy, Tubbo? Yes, damn him, even Willbur? How, without knowing the history in advance, to choose the right path? And will it be truly «right», or more favorable for him and his friends? The guy plunges deeper and deeper into the jungle of these strange thoughts, the forgotten noodles are getting cold in the plate, when suddenly the phone in his hand vibrates, reminding him of the correspondence.

**NighTMAre:** want some pizza?

George raises his eyebrows in surprise. What kind of pizza at seven in the morning? In the back of mind, I think that talking about pizza is probably the strangest way to interrupt my thoughts about whether a guy is doing the right thing by deciding to help the revolutionaries.

**NicknameNotFound:** What?  
 **NighTMAre:** yes, I'm lying down, and even I wanted to eat so much, so I thought that I should order a pizza  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm too lazy to cook, and I'll wake up my roommates, and I don't want to do this, you know  
 **NighTMAre:** i like them better when they sleep

The guy chuckles, putting a fork of cold noodles in his mouth. Nightmare had once mentioned that he had to rent a house with two friends to avoid spending a huge amount of money, but he never went into details.

**NicknameNotFound:** How rude.  
 **NighTMAre:** yes, but true  
 **NighTMAre:** i can tell them to their face that I don't like them  
 **NighTMAre:** but I think they are well aware of this  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You talk about them like you think you're better than them.  
 **NighTMAre:** i don't think so, lost-boy, I know it  
 **NighTMAre:** no, they have brains, I guess. Or rather, the brain. One for two  
 **NighTMAre:** but I can't say that they are somehow pleasant to me  
 **NighTMAre:** these are the very friends with whom you would never communicate, if something had not happened in your life

George instantly thinks of the three of them who hung out in his living room a few days ago, and wonders if he would have been in touch with any of them if the annoying neighbor hadn't shoved a baby into his arms one day, promising to pay. The answer is obvious.

**NicknameNotFound:** I know what you mean. But that doesn't make them bad, does it?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** They just wouldn't get in your way if this "something" didn't happen.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I have a couple of friends like that, and I probably wouldn't call them bad. They are just weird.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'd rather live in a house with neighbors than die of cold alone.  
 **Nightmare:** you offer to house swap?)  
 **NicknameNotFound:** you must First come to L'manburg, and I have to get out of here)  
 **Nightmare:** and with this, probably, there will be problems  
 **Nightmare:** so what about pizza?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm eating noodles, and I have to go to work soon. I just can't wait for the courier.  
 **Nightmare:** i wanted to buy you a food(  
 **NicknameNotFound:** In the evening?

George smiles as he looks at the check mark indicating that his message has been read. It seemed that they would order food for him, which was not only pleasing, but also ... touching? In any case, it was nice enough for the other person to promise to order him food, knowing about the guy's problems with money.

The clock showed half-past eight when the guy left the house. He usually got out about fifteen minutes earlier, but today, Saturday, all the big shots would be sitting at home drinking their expensive coffee, which cost half his salary, and so the guy could afford the luxury of being a little late. Unfinished reports, unfortunately, will not run away. The bus, as always on a weekend morning, is half-empty. A few old ladies, hurrying about their business, cast suspicious glances at the guy who came into the salon. Where are they even going this early? The guy even gets the idea that it is possible to somehow trace one elderly representative of the human race, but he immediately dismisses this idea. George doesn't intend to spend his day off doing this research. The bus is going fast, the roads are empty, and the guy is smiling, looking at the snow-covered city. Despite the relatively warm weather, the snowfall did not prevent it at all, and now the trees that swept past the window looked like the paws of some snowman, on whose fingers crows were comfortably placed, following the passing cars with a careful look of black beady eyes.

Along the paths there are (or are already lying) ridiculous-looking snowmen of all shapes and sizes, with huge hands made of sticks, with eyes like pebbles, and one of them has a scarf hanging from his «neck», apparently lost by some child, and which was instantly used in construction. The park opposite the hated office is also pristine, with only a few footprints in the fresh snow to indicate that George was not the only one who had to rush here at such an early hour. Perhaps these are the footprints of one of his colleagues, or maybe it's just someone who decided to take a shortcut, passing through a snow-covered park that seems to have descended from the pages of a fairy tale about the Snow Queen. The guy's hands are shaking from the cold as he pulls them out of his pockets along with his phone, and takes a few pictures. Rather for himself, in order to remember this picture exactly like this, in the smallest detail, but then he thinks that, perhaps, Nightmare would also like these photos. Probably ... George has no idea what the other person really likes. The only thing he's almost completely sure of is the fact that Nightmare likes to hang out with him. His messages were not steeped in polite attempts to keep the conversation going, but were really alive and real, which captivated the guy, making him wait with a strange trepidation for each new message. And now he looks at the checkboxes that appear next to the photos, which indicate that the interlocutor has viewed them, and now he types a response message.

**NighTMAre:** do you work in the forest?  
 **NighTMAre:** do you build houses for animals?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** This is the park opposite the office. You could have told me how beautiful it looked instead of being sarcastic.  
 **NighTMAre:** you didn't send your picture, why should I admire the beauty?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Is that a compliment?

George tilts his head slightly, looking at the screen, leaning back against the tree. The hands holding the phone were red from the cold, but he was in no hurry to enter the building.

**NighTMAre:** nah, it's a statement of fact  
 **NighTMAre:** you're beautiful  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Are you flirting?  
 **NighTMAre:** no  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm just stating a fact  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Stop it…  
 **NighTMAre:** :)

George, glancing nervously at the screen of his smartphone, puts it in his pocket. However, the strange dialogue lifted his spirits. The guy walks into the office, completely spitting that he was twenty minutes late, quickly shows his pass to an empty booth, the guard from which went to drink coffee, and runs up the stairs. The room is empty and quiet, except for the buzzing of the lamps like annoying flies on a summer day, and the sounds of some computer whose system is obsessively demanding to update it. The guy reaches his seat, throwing his jacket over the back of the chair and tugging at the collar of the sweater, bought recently on the advice of the interlocutor. He picks up a pen with a fancy bear-shaped cap that Nikki gave him, and clicks it a couple of times. There is no desire to work, thereby spoiling his mood, but the papers lying on the table clearly hint to the guy about what kind of ass he will get into if he does not fill them out. No choice, right? I have to take a deep breath and say goodbye to the sunlight and hours of free time, drive up to the table in a chair, take the top sheet from the stack and kick the computer into operation. The habit of doing everything at the last moment, as you know, does not lead to good and is called "procrastination". And it's not easy to get rid of it, so it's better not to go to the sin.

*******

**NighTMAre:** i hate restaurants  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What?

George rubs his reddened eyes in surprise, looking up from the papers on the message, and quickly looks around the office. It's getting dark outside, and he checks the time, noting that it's past seven in the afternoon. Has he been here for almost eight hours? He stands up, trying to stretch his stiff legs, crunching his shoulders. Well, just a old man! The last signs of humanity have disappeared from the building, just a sleepy security guard watching some TV series in his booth, and a few late-comers, like him, who are scattered on different floors, and do not intersect with the guy in any way. He goes down to the dining room and, licking his lips, looks at the buns left lying on the counter, behind which there is no seller. Technically, if he takes one, it will be considered theft and deducted from the salary, and, therefore, it will turn out that he will buy it. The guy calms himself with this, promising that he will give the money back if his theft is not noticed by the guard, on Monday. Don't really want to get kicked out of my job over a piece of dough.

**NighTMAre:** hell, the whole staff is as slow as fucking turtles  
 **NighTMAre:** everyone seems to have a goal, but no one can fulfill it  
 **NighTMAre:** like brainless monkeys, and this is, like, a model institution. Shit…  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Are you all right?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why are you even in the restaurant?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** A date?  
 **NighTMAre:** yeah, with fifteen pumped-up men who don't even have the rudiments of a brain  
 **NighTMAre:** i was assigned to arrange a certain banquet, but, fuck it, how annoying!  
 **NighTMAre:** why are people such stupid creatures?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Hey!  
 **NicknameNotFound:** And me?  
 **NighTMAre:** and you sometimes behave like a stupid child who decided to play an adult uncle, but did not read the rules of the game  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm older than you!  
 **NighTMAre:** are you saying I'm wrong?

The guy bites off a piece of bun, smiling. The mood begins to rise again from the mark «how tired I am, kill me» to «well, life is not so bad», and this can not but rejoice. I want to say something to Nightmare, but without admitting that he's right, I can't do it, because George is just trying to change the subject.

**NicknameNotFound:** I stole a bun from the cafeteria)  
 **Nightmare:** congratulations. If you need a house to escape from the chase, write to me I will give you shelter. Maybe even feed you, but not a fact  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Yes, the saleswoman just has a day off, I will return her money on Monday.  
 **Nightmare:** you can immediately see — the most dangerous criminal on the planet. Tell me honestly, do you even throw candy wrappers in the trash?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Stop being sarcastic.  
 **Nightmare:** sorry, I couldn't help myself  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm off, I still have a documents to fill out, and I'm finally completely free.  
 **Nightmare:** oh, how  
 **Nightmare:** write when you leave the office  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Uh-huh.

George, with a smile on his face and a half-eaten bun in his hand, returns to his seat, idly scanning the remaining papers. The messages from Nightmere were a little rougher than usual, as if the guy was worried, but he couldn't figure out why. Why does he even organize a banquet for some incomprehensible pumped-up men? Maybe it's some kind of military? But how does the other person relate to them, and why are they going to a restaurant out of town? For what? George sighs. He didn't know where Nightmare worked. I tried to clarify, but he went off the subject, turning the conversation in a different direction. George was amazed at how Tom managed to do it so quietly and smoothly that he only noticed it a few hours later, when he reread the correspondence. The guy had a clear talent for hiding information that he didn't want to share. And it even ceased to frighten, became something normal and familiar. He just had to accept that he would never be able to solve all the riddles that were stored in Nightmare. And you don't have to. This mystery in the other person was fascinating, making George more attached to him, trying to solve it, to learn a little more about him. And it became so normal that common sense at some point stopped reminding the guy that it is not necessary to get attached to a stranger. For nothing?..

George, with a smile on his face and a half-eaten bun in his hand, returns to his seat, idly scanning the remaining papers. The messages from Nightmere were a little rougher than usual, as if the guy was worried, but he couldn't figure out why. Why does he even organize a banquet for some incomprehensible pumped-up men? Maybe it's some kind of military? But how does the other person relate to them, and why are they going to a restaurant out of town? For what? George sighs. He didn't know where Nightmare worked. I tried to clarify, but he went off the subject, turning the conversation in a different direction. George was amazed at how Tom managed to do it so quietly and smoothly that he only noticed it a few hours later, when he reread the correspondence. The guy had a clear talent for hiding information that he didn't want to share. And it even ceased to frighten, became something normal and familiar. He just had to accept that he would never be able to solve all the riddles that were stored in Nightmare. And you don't have to. This mystery in the other person was fascinating, making George more attached to him, trying to solve it, to learn a little more about him. And it became so normal that common sense at some point stopped reminding the guy that it is not necessary to get attached to a stranger. For nothing?..

The cafe where Dream has fallen in is warm and smells of baking. The waitress moves quickly between the tables, happy to have her shift over soon. And in this cafe delicious coffee. And a good view of the office, which is located opposite, with the windows burning in it. He knows perfectly well that in one of these windows, hunched over his papers, is his lost-boy. If George had known how willing his mobile operator was to sell all the data about him, he would have immediately thrown the flash drive to hell. But he didn't know. And he probably shouldn't have known about it, it would be safer to sleep. The guy clutches the phone in his hand with such force that he is surprised that it hasn't cracked yet. Used to it? Why was he even sitting here, staring intently at the glowing windows of the building across the street? Why is he waiting for a guy he hasn't even met in real life? Or rather, I saw him, but that meeting could hardly be called a full-fledged acquaintance. He looks down at his own gloved hand, which is trembling from the excess caffeine in his blood, but stubbornly takes another sip, feeling somewhat deranged. Obsessed with the one person who's sitting in the fucking office across the street, unsuspecting. When are you coming out? The guy exhales, clutching his head, trying to calm down. How many cups of coffee did he drink? My heart is about to jump out of my chest, and it's getting hard to breathe. Overdose on caffeine? A funny death, you can't say anything.

In one window, in which a light was burning a second ago, it suddenly becomes dark, and the Dream freezes. He waits, glancing nervously toward the exit as the phone vibrates in his hand.

**NicknameNotFound:** I'm going home.

A man emerges from the building, puts his smartphone in his pocket, and quickly walks towards the nearest bus stop. The blond man freezes for a second, like a hunting dog, scenting prey, and then, throwing a few bills on the table, without even looking at the denomination, leaves the room in the cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the guy on the other side of the road, pulling his phone out of his pocket to make sure, although he is sure that he sees his interlocutor. Need to make sure. Just have to.

**NighTMAre:** is it cold?

In the hands of the subject of surveillance, the phone, previously hidden in a deep pocket of the jacket, lights up, and the message is instantly read.

**NicknameNotFound:** Hell, yes!  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It was so beautiful this morning, and now ... Brr.

Dream almost gets hit by the wheels of a car, running across the road, and the guy, engrossed in printing another message, does not even notice it.

**NicknameNotFound:** People have ruined all the beauty.  
 **NighTMAre:** humans are Generally terrible creatures  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Pfft, and don't tell me. 

That's it, trail to trail. Dream pauses for a second, letting the guy get a little further away before continuing the chase. No, more like just surveillance. What-what, but the guy is not going to catch the interlocutor. The blond man pulls the hood tighter over his head. They were passing the restaurant now, and it would be better if the cameras on it couldn't capture his face, not hidden under his favorite mask. There's noise and music coming from the room, and the dark-haired man in front of him turns his head for a second, trying to see what's going on in the windows. Oh, no, lost-boy, you'd better avoid this building. At least today. A special event is being held there today.

The snow crunches underfoot, even though it looks like the road has already been trodden by dozens of people to Dream, and the crunch is annoying to hear, but it is too quiet to arouse any suspicion in George, let alone that they are walking at a sufficient distance from each other. The stop is filled with people, which clearly does not like the brunette, but pleases the blonde. It's easier to hide in a crowd, easier to get lost. And now it is needed more than ever before. The dream stops very close, even too close, but here's another plus of the large number of people around — this action, which would cause suspicion if the stop was empty, is ignored. The crowd is doing its job. In the bus that arrives a few minutes later, the guy squeezes first, sitting on one of the farthest seats at the end of the cabin, forgetting even about paying for the ride — not before that. The object of such close attention, having entered, awkwardly freezes before sitting down a few rows closer to the exit, barely squeezing through to the window through some man who took two seats at once. Dream clenches his fists nervously, watching the back of his head as it flits in front of him.

Why did he even go to that cafe near the park, photos of which were sent to him by his interlocutor in the morning? Who the hell knows. Just decided to sit there, looking at the vast office with the lights on. His task in the restaurant was even exceeded, and the guy was afraid that he had overdone the dose of ricin on one living soul. He sat idly flipping through the correspondence, drinking another cup of coffee, and watching the few people leaving the building. Few people work on a Saturday night. Why did he run after the guy when he saw him in the window? He couldn't answer that question himself, he just... wanted to follow him. Yes, the guy always tried to limit his "wishlist" within reason, but not at that moment. And then, as he ran across the road, he thought about just waiting for the guy to get on the bus. So why is he sitting in the car now, too, staring at the back of someone else's head? And up to what point is he going to go after guy?

«Need to conduct it»

Who needs it? Who? Dream laughs softly into his fist, knowing that he needs it himself. Well, he can't just turn around and leave, he can't get off at the bus stop, knowing who is sitting on the bus right now. And it makes him laugh at himself. Fool. He's a damned fool who's attached to a human being. Something happened to him that he condemned people for. Well, that's fine.

*******

On the final stage, a few more people come out with them, who scatter in different directions, while two guys go in the same direction. That's it. That's right, isn't it? The streetlights are off again, and Dream even looks at them for a second, wondering if they've ever worked at all, or if they've always been a useless decoration on the street. It's pitch-dark, with only a few windows in the houses glowing in the distance, and a shop sign burning brightly. Strangely, it didn't seem too late, but the streets were already dark and deserted.

**NicknameNotFound:** I think someone is following me.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** For a long time now.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** From the stop itself, it seems.

The Dream does not know what to say to this, and therefore does not even enter the correspondence, reading messages through notifications and thereby leaving them unseen. Then you'll have to explain why he wasn't online, but that's not the point right now. Especially when the person to whom he has to explain himself is walking right in front of him. The blonde saw how the guy in front of him was nervous, clenched his fists, constantly, hoping for the answer of the interlocutor, climbed into the phone. And each time, putting the smartphone with unread messages in his pocket, he turned his head slightly, trying to see the pursuer. It was even funny, even if lost-boy was clearly not in the mood for jokes. So much so that he ran into the store, briefly glancing back at the guy who paused for a second at the entrance. Dream knows which way the other person's house is and, therefore, which way he will go, so he lazily and slowly passes by the panoramic windows of the store, feeling someone else's gaze on his back. The brunette nervously watches his every step until he disappears around the corner.

**NicknameNotFound:** Everything seems to be fine, he's gone.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I ran into the store.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** The security guard looks at me like a jerk.  
 **NighTMAre:** be careful  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm not at home, I can't text  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Where?  
 **NighTMAre:** later

The automatic doors open with a soft rustle, and Dream looks around cautiously, ready to continue chasing the guy. From somewhere in the distance, drunken screams are heard, and it is both unnerving and annoying at the same time. Dream is sure that he will be able to fight off, if anything, a couple of addicts but he hates the fact that the interlocutor has to walk around here every single day, looking around in fear and hoping not to get into another mess. He feels the phone vibrate in his pocket, and the screen of the other phone illuminates the face of the guy who appeared around the corner, but he hurries to get it out, pausing. The dark-haired man looks straight at him, clenching his fists and recoiling, trying to at least see his face, but the hood and the darkness do their job. The guy takes a few steps towards his house, squinting at Dream, and he can't help but chuckle, it looks so comical, but this display of emotions only scares George, who almost breaks into a run, hurrying to get home as soon as possible and forget this evening like a bad dream. The blonde, in contrast to the pursued, walks slowly and relaxed, with some excessive pleasure looking at the retreating back, at how the guy constantly turns, trying to understand whether the "chase" continues behind him. True, only he runs, but... Dream likes to call it surveillance more. It sounds more harmless. It's more normal than "I'm chasing someone I don't know just because I'm interested in him, and to get information about them, I think I had to bribe every possible data office." With this formulation, it is easy to get into a mental hospital.

— What's the hurry? — A mocking, drunken voice says, and the guy winces. Alcoholics aga-… Damn it.

The figure in front begins to be surrounded, and he looks fearfully at the four people who, Dream is ready to bet, were around the guy's house that very day. Escape the dark nowhere to go, he looks back, glaring at the stalker, and even in the dark Dream sees how the guy is scared and overwhelmed at the moment as flinch under the jacket shoulders, but back run he's also hesitant, scared of being caught, but because it remains in this circle, which is quickly approaching dream. The drunken comrades shout something in the direction of the dark-haired man, and then, it seems, in the direction of the Dream itself, when he comes too close, but he can no longer make out the insults addressed to him — it's like an old TV hissed in his ears, not letting him hear a word.

*******

Before George can look back, his pursuer wraps one arm around him, hugging him tightly, and hisses something at the guys surrounding him. The dark-haired man freezes like a hare cornered. On the other hand, whoever the man was, whose heaving chest, despite the large amount of clothing, George felt on his back, he was clearly not in league with the four of them, which can be understood from the cursing in his direction. He's already trying to make another attempt, if not to break free, then at least to look at the person holding him, when suddenly he hears a metallic click that sounds like a bolt from the blue, causing him to freeze in fright for a second. And judging by the fear on the faces of the people opposite — it wasn't just him.

— It's not real, — one of the guys hisses, to which the man behind him only snorts, and this mockery of his opponents ripples through George's entire body. What the fuck is going on?

— You want to take a chance? — it was like being hit on the head with a sledgehammer, having previously removed all the air from the lungs. That mocking voice sounds insanely familiar, but the guy can't (or rather, doesn't want to) recognize the person who asked the question.

The four of them exchange glances and, after showering George and the guy behind him with curses, stagger off in the direction of the store that the dark-haired man recently left. Breathing becomes a little easier. But not quite. He is finally released and falls to the ground, unable to keep his feet. He turns to look at his recent pursuer, who is standing half-turned, hastily holstering his pistol in a hip holster, replacing the safety catch. George does not even have the strength to simply get up from the ground, which his pursuer notices. He sighs, helping to get up, and there are no forces for resistance, and do not want to…

How he got home, the guy did not remember. It seems that he reached it himself or a guy dragged his unconscious carcass. With trembling hands, the guy opened the door, stumbling into the dark corridor. His vision seemed to blur, and he had to sit down on the floor to keep from collapsing, his head in his hands. What the fuck? What the fuck was all this shit doing to him? And, most importantly, what the hell was _he_ doing there?

**NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why?

The messages are read almost instantly, but there is still no response, and the guy bites the edge of a trembling palm. He doesn't elaborate on what the guy means, which is to say that Nightmare is in on what happened. «I'm not home». Now George knows exactly where the other person was at that very moment, and almost whines with the feelings that overwhelmed him. Rage, burning resentment, irritation, and fear mix together to create a terrible cocktail.

**NicknameNotFound:** Why are you in L'manburg?  
 **NighTMAre:** never mind

Never mind, really?!

**NicknameNotFound:** Why did you follow me? What the fuck? You said you weren't allowed to cross the border, so what are you doing in the city?  
 **NighTMAre:** i can't tell you, I'm sorry. There are a lot of things that I need to deal with myself and that I do not intend to involve you in, even indirectly  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You had a gun.  
 **NighTMAre:** this is a fake  
 **NicknameNotFound:** You're lying  
 **NighTMAre:** yeah)

George freezes, and his throat goes dry. Just like that, so in style Nigtmare. Such a simple, "yeah."

**NicknameNotFound:** You know where I live.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Come to me.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** We need to talk.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It's abnormal, you know.  
 **NighTMAre:** it's time to end this dialogue, lost-boy. Is this abnormal? I know  
 **NighTMAre:** how would you like to end this crazy thing with what you should have done on the first day we met?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What are you talking about?  
 **NighTMAre:** i'm sorry

George tries to repeat his message, but he can't. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, restarting the applications and returning to the unfinished dialog, but…

**This user added you to the blacklist.**

*******

The doorbell rings, and the guy sitting in the kitchen jumps. Funny, but a second ago it seemed to him that he was not able to do anything more than swallow the chat, repeatedly restarting the application and every damn time seeing the same sign stating that he was blacklisted by the user under the nickname « **NighTMAre** ». So the fact that he was scared at all was, admittedly, surprising. He pauses for a second at the front door, wishing he had a peephole — it wouldn't be so scary. Did he really come? His hands shake when the guy opens the door, but it's clearly not Nightmare but the delivery guy, who looks sleepily into the face of a disappointed guy and hands him a paper about receiving the previously paid order. What's happening?

Everything becomes clear when the boy opposite hands him several boxes of pizza, which he takes out of the interior of a small car, wishes him a pleasant evening and, with a sense of accomplishment, leaves. Everything becomes clear, and the guy can barely contain his hysterical laughter because of the last joke of Nightmare, who promised to order him a pizza in the morning. He enters the house, putting the packages on the table, and, falling into a chair, continues to laugh. He laughs until his voice is hoarse and the laughter suddenly turns into a fucking tantrum. Rag.

_The festival is only a day away, and George is wondering if this game is even worth the candle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was in fucking shock too, pancakes. It's sad.   
> and have a good weekend.


	13. Chapter 13

— You look like shit, — Techno says, giving Dream a cursory glance as he lies like a sack on the couch, and chuckles. The latter frowns at such attention, about to say a few unkind words to the guy, but decides that it is not worth being rude to his colleague, especially on the last, decisive day.

— Don't look, if you don't like me, — the blond shrugs indifferently, looking back at the laptop screen more for effect than need. The person who could have written to him at such an early hour was now on his blacklist.

— I can't, you're always flashing in my eyes.

— Do you want to prick them out, or do you want to turn away? — The guy offers phlegmatically, to which Blade just snorts. He's in a very high-spirited mood for a man who's going to be shooting people in a few hours. Or is that what he's happy about?

«Crazy»

On the other hand, Dream doesn't give a damn about the state of mind of his colleagues. Initially, he just wanted to have fun, so he quickly offered his help to the guys who planned the revolution. It didn't matter that they were crazy lunatics, as long as they weren't going to attack him with knives and axes. The guy was generally quite surprised that they kept some, but adequate. Looking at Will, it was impossible to tell that this man was asleep and saw the head of his city, where he had lived for many years, fall on his face, swallowing the blood that poured down his throat. His plans, to tell the truth, were not particularly bloody or violent, he just wanted to free his house from the totalitarianism arranged by Schlatt. Everything, one might even say, was harmless enough. Technoblade is another matter. At first, Dream thought that Tom, too, like himself, just wanted bread and circuses, but everything turned out to be easier and more difficult at the same time. He simply didn't like the city. The very fact of its existence. The people who lived in it. Why? And fuck knows, I just didn't like it, that's all. And he decided to get rid of this problem quite simply-to destroy the fucking city. Or at least part of it. And isn't the head of the city and his entourage a significant part of the city? If he killed them, wouldn't he cause a hell of a mess, showing the whole city that the authorities couldn't even protect themselves, let alone the citizens? But for the chaos, he lacked some details, which Dream was happy to help add, creating a perfect picture in Blade's head. Everything was easy with him. At the same time, Willbur, who seemed to support his companion, had a completely different idea of the ideal plan, but Dream was not going to change it because of his "wishlist". He wanted to make a show, a spectacle. Something that would be remembered for years to come, and all Willbur wanted was peace in the city. He had to be almost persuaded to follow the plan, without telling some details, lying, pressing the necessary levers in his head in order to break the will of the guy, to bend him under himself. It took almost two weeks. For two weeks, the blonde had to prove his and Techno's rightness to the guy, until he swallowed and gave up. If you want to change the world, then stop playing by its rules, create new ones. A game with the old rules will never be considered truly new.

If the company of Willbur, who clearly showed his dislike for the blonde, he tried to avoid, then Techno was the predatory fish in the aquarium that you pay the most attention to. The one you're watching, betting on whether she'll eat someone, or whether they'll eat her. Dream was sure that the authorities would still have to work hard before they could catch Blade, so he was betting on the guy and on his victory in this war. The war? In any case, very soon the guy was not up to accomplices, it was only necessary for his communication with a stranger on social networks to go a little further than the usual «Hello-bye», which happened about a week later. The blonde was just interested in spinning this strange guy sitting on the other side of the screen, learning a little more about him, collecting information bit by bit. He wasn't anything special. Just an ordinary office worker, as the blonde learned in the first days of communication. Dream continued to dig, looking for devils living in a quiet pool, but they were not there. There was just a guy smiling awkwardly at him from a profile picture, and then from a picture taken just for him. Dream understood that the interlocutor puts all of himself into his messages, without fear sharing his life with a stranger, and this was so stupid and childishly naive that he could not help but reciprocate these attempts to make friends. To these sincere attempts to maintain communication. Soon enough, Dream realized that, in fact, he is almost the only person with whom his interlocutor communicates. A few acquaintances from work, and friends with whom he did not contact after moving from his native home to a rented one. And it is. Once the blonde even took advantage of this, blocking the guy when he refused to go to bed, despite the fact that in the morning he had to go to work. However, I did not want to control the boy, I just wanted to watch, imperceptibly becoming more and more attached. Yes, so much so that the guy began to get nervous when the interlocutor disappeared from the network for too long. He also found himself suddenly jealous of him. The first time it happened was when he was telling something about his colleague, and Dream realized that he was up to his neck. The last thing he wanted to experience in his life was useless jealousy, but fate, such a bitch, coldly laughed at his desires, and he had to nervously clench his fists, hiding his real emotions under a tight mask of friendliness, asking how his friends were doing, while the beast inside was tearing and throwing, ready to kill anyone who came closer to the guy than two meters (observe social distance!). He couldn't call himself crazy, but he was close enough to it, nervously checking his private messages every time he woke up after another three hours of restless sleep.

And yesterday... and yesterday he couldn't help himself. He couldn't help it when he saw the same park that the guy had sent him a photo of a few hours earlier. "This is the park across from the office." With all the data that the blonde had, he was easily able to find out from the mobile operator a little personal information about a certain user, who received a generous monetary reward for this and, if anything, agreed to continue working with the guy. In general, this data turned out to be almost useless, the interlocutor himself was happy to tell them to Dream, so that he received only some pieces of the almost finished puzzle. He also recognized the name. And this knowledge was much more valuable than anything else. Found.

And then… Well ... even after all night, the guy couldn't understand what the hell made him go after the brunette, looking for the top of his head in the crowd. On the other hand, if he hadn't followed him, there was no telling what might have happened to the kid. Dream still felt sick when he remembered the desperation and fear that had flashed in the boy's eyes when he had turned to face him, looking for a way to escape from the men who had attacked him. The blond man then seems to have gone mad, quickly unbuttoning his jacket and pulling out a gun hidden for special occasions. A special occasion has come, damn it. He remembered how the boy had flinched in fright when Dream had held him close. He felt, despite his clothes, the warmth of someone else's body very close, felt someone else's smell. Although, was it possible to call this guy a «stranger»? Is it possible to call a person, because of which you almost shot some bastard in the head, a «stranger»? He had to carry the guy who had collapsed in the snow home on his back. Not that it was difficult for him, just… Weird. Judging by the dazed look and nervous contraction of the body — the guy was in a real shock, because he thought with difficulty. True, Dream could feel the awareness in the boy's eyes when he turned his head, once again peering into his face. Did he recognize it by the voice? Shit. But there was no further sign that the guy knew who he was looking at, and the blond man even hoped for a second that he would pass and George would not recognize him as his interlocutor. In the meantime, Dream took advantage of the guy's weakness, grabbing his arm, feeling that his temperature had risen again. Or is it just that his own hands are so cold? It was not so important, only one thought was beating in my head at that moment. He's real, he's alive, he's fucking here. And it was maddening, making me tighten my grip on George's wrist. So much so that he winced as he squinted in his direction.

— It turts, — Dream nods, loosening his grip, but still holding on to the other's hand.

— Where are the house keys? — George turns his head in confusion, as if trying to comprehend what is being asked of him before answering.

\- In my pocket. I can o-open it myself, - the blonde looks at him skeptically, assessing the condition of the guy, and, considering it satisfactory, leads him to the front door and, before it is opened (not on the first attempt), quickly leaves, literally forcing his body to move. Can you call it an escape? Hell, yes! But it is not worth staying, and therefore the guy quickly hurries in the direction of the bus stop. The phone reports three new messages, and then, as soon as the guy looks through them, another one comes.

**NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Why are you in L'manburg?

And what do you want me to say to that?

*******

What would have happened if he had agreed yesterday to the request to come in and talk? What would their conversation be about? How many secrets would the dark-haired man have to learn if Dream agreed? If not, with a nervous grin and an apology, he threw the user with the nickname **NicknameNotFound** into the blacklist, and then, putting the phone in his pocket, hurried home, if that building could even be called that. And the pizza… Well, it was another unexpected attack of neither caring nor saying goodbye. Say goodbye? The guy shuddered at the thought that he would no longer see a message from his friend, to whom he had become so attached for a fucking month. And that's why George was on the short list of blocked users. This attachment scared the hell out of the guy, who despised such feelings of other people, considering it a weakness. And what happened to him? Funny.

Lying on the couch, Dream does not even listen to any important thoughts of the Techno, who walks from side to side around the room, looking at the profile that he has already learned by heart for the hundredth time. The user was online for ten minutes. Why? Out of habit, did he go to the messages to wish good morning, or did correspond with someone you know? The guy is consumed with envy at the thought that someone can continue to calmly communicate with lost-boy, write to him, wish him a fucking good morning. And Dream puts his hands to his head, gritting his teeth in rage. It was unfair and insulting, even if it was all his fault. Starting from the moment when he made a mistake with his ID, writing to a stranger, and ending with his stupid surveillance, which led to such grim consequences. But that doesn't make it any easier.

— Are you even listening to me? — Blade asks, looking irritated at the guy staring at the laptop screen. He just clicks his tongue, not even turning his head. At least he pretended to be interested, the bastard!

— Why are you telling me all this now? The plan is already ready, and with your «improvements» on the last day, you will achieve nothing but disorder in the plan. Stop it — Dream breathes, and after a moment's thought, he adds. — Where's Willbur?

— I have no idea, to tell you the truth. He said he wasn't going to the festival with us, so he took the guitar and left, — Blade shrugs indifferently, but his eyes flicker with concern for a second. If Will betrayed them at the very last moment, it would be funny,but it would hurt. — He took that spare phone, if that I can…

— Don't, — the blond man interrupts. — That phone is completely clean in case anyone tries to find out any information about the owner. If you use it — you'll be shitting yourself. Willbur won't just drop the plan, you know. He'll go all the way. At least until the end of the festival, he will definitely be near us, and then… Well, what happens to him after that doesn't really matter, does it?

— What are you talking about? — Techno, leaning against the wall, glares at the guy, who only laughs softly, lowering the lid of the laptop and leaning his head back on the armrest, stretched out at full length on the couch, closes his eyes, deciding to give them a little rest. — What's wrong with Willbur?

— Come on, as if you don't realize that his plan wasn't to destroy the city, even partially. And he still does not know how many, in fact, our people will be in the square. Something tells me he's not going to like it very much.

— I don't care. Don't please everyone, — Techno shrugs. — The main thing is that he doesn't run away today, and then you won't care. By the way, what the fuck you need him?

— Usually when you're talking nonsense, he listens to you and I don't have to try to keep up a conversation that doesn't really interest me, and this is such a bummer, — the guy laughs, looking at the way Blade's face changes, which indicates a clear displeasure at Dream's words. — If you want to talk again, I'm in the kitchen.

— Fuck you.

Dream laughs, getting up from the couch and putting down his laptop, quickly leaves the living room, barely restraining himself from growling at Blade, who tried to say something else. How annoying.

*******

Don't have the energy to heat the pizza ordered last morning. Or rather, it is simply too lazy to do it, because the guy chews it dry and cold. Don't care, right now the priority is just to fill a whining stomach, and what — it doesn't matter. The building is constantly cold, which the roommates complain about, and Dream... Dream doesn't care. The cold, in any case, is much better than the summer heat, from which there is no escape, and a warm jacket does its job, not letting you freeze. The guy pulls his phone out of his pocket, quickly scanning the news, but there are no reports that anyone from Schlatt's security detail was hospitalized during the night, which is very gratifying. So they either hadn't woken up yet, or they'd decided not to call the hospital, thinking it was just food poisoning, which was exactly what the blond guy was counting on.

The restaurant plan proved to be better than expected. Fifteen boogies, who were under Schlatt's protection at the time of the attack, were invited to the restaurant under the guise of their superiors. They are not troubled by the fact that more than half of colleagues simply did not exist, but had not confused the offer from the authorities to plunk the day before important activities that hungover to come, at least, stupid. And the restaurant staff somehow did not pay attention to the fact that the bottles of water and alcohol ordered not in the restaurant were not sealed at the time of delivery. On the other hand, no one expected that someone would think of making attempts on such persons as ordinary security guards, even if they were quite important. The choice of poison was also not accidental. Ricin was not only easy and cheap to get, and what a lot of room for imagination, wow! A white powder without smell and taste, easily soluble in water, but at the same time it is almost impossible to be poisoned by it from touching, and also, what is most fun, ricin had no antidote. Technically, all of those fifteen men were doomed, that cost them only to take a SIP of anything. And it was kind of funny. Perhaps if they had gone to the hospital immediately after the poisoning, they could have saved themselves by washing the toxic stuff out of their system, but who would go to the hospital only after feeling unwell and having a stomach ache? It is unlikely, of course, that they will not all go to the festival, they simply will not be allowed to do so, but it is much easier to shoot half-dead guards with food poisoning than healthy buggies who are still able to stand on their feet. And this is exactly the effect that the guy wanted to achieve. Weakness, inability to move without pain. If he'd used cyanide, the guys would have had to be taken out of that restaurant in a body truck, and that would have raised some suspicions. Minor, fuck it. Dream takes another slice of pizza, wondering why the fuck he's doing this at all, if he's lost any excitement from what's happening a week ago, it seems. Or earlier?

*******

— Who's that? — Blade points to George's page, which is open on his laptop, and Dream, who has just entered the room, goes berserk.

\- Why the fuck did you touch my laptop, you piece of half-baked bacon? — the guy hisses, snatching the technique from other people's hands and quickly ran to look at the browser history, but he think that if Techno dug into his computer, looking for something not in it, or he cleaned history.

— Calm down! I just opened the lid, and here's a guy. Will he take part in the operation? — Dream snorts, shaking his head to say "no".

— No, he's just ... an acquaintance? Yes, I suppose so. He has no idea what's going to happen today. However, he lives in the same place, so the hype in the center, I think, should not touch him, — Blade raises his eyebrows in surprise, looking incredulously at the guy who froze for a second.

— Do you know how to worry about people?

— Do you care about my personal life? — the guy retorted, closing the tab with a familiar page. It's easier that way. He wanted it all to stop, so why does he keep staring at profile picture like an idiot all morning? It's time to end this, he's not like other people, he's stronger. Emotions? What the hell are they for?

The cursor freezes on the folder where the guy downloaded the photos and voice messages of the brunette, which he sent to him. Dream knew that he should delete this folder to hell, but a lump rose in his throat, and the blonde hisses irritably, biting the back of his cheek until it hurts, trying to recover. Weakling!

_The festival is only a few hours away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops. another chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

His whole body aches, and his eyes refuse to open, and George shudders, forcing his body to wake up. The most disgusting mood rolls in a wave, the head is splitting, and why the guy can not understand, because he only clenches his teeth, looking around. The pain in the body, as it turned out, is explained quite easily – sleeping on an old unmade sofa has done its job, and the back now expresses its deepest gratitude for such a barbaric disregard for the simplest comfort. Why the fuck did he even fall asleep in this small room, mistakenly called the living room? He looks around, trying to figure out what the fuck happened yesterday. My gaze falls on my right hand, which has a few bruises on its wrist, left by too strong a grip. A grip? The memories hit like a sledgehammer, forcing his to instantly get up from the couch, nervously looking around the room once more. There's an open pizza box on the glass table that Tommy miraculously didn't break. George walks around the room, looks into the kitchen, where he hasn't even turned off the light, and goes out into the hallway. He tries the front door, but it's locked. The guy knew that he locked it after he took the pizza, but he wants to make sure, check it out. What if Nightmare came in at night but couldn't get into the house? The thought was unnerving, though the fact that someone was trying to get into his house should have been more unnerving. But Nightmare is not «someone», he could have come. He fucking had to do it. Had to come and talk, explain myself, so that the guy would stop worrying, and not…

**This user added you to the blacklist.**

The inscription does not disappear anywhere. Does it seem to be even brighter than yesterday, or did George just not fully understand the situation he was in yesterday? He hoped that the problem would disappear overnight, and his morning would start with the usual « **good morning :)** »? What the fuck was he even hoping for, opening up a dialogue he no longer had the chance to write into? He clenches his teeth, trying to swallow the nasty lump in his throat, and flips through the correspondence. A correspondence that for the first time seems to him too personal, which has crossed the boundaries of ordinary friendship.

_Let me know when you leave the office._

_Nah, that's a statement of fact. You're beautiful._

_Be careful._

_You can complain to me, I'm here :)_

_That was awfully cute, just so you know._

_Do you really like my voice?_

_\- Ha, are you worried?_   
_\- Yes_

_Are you out of your mind because of me? That sounds weird, just so you know._

_Admit it, if it wasn't for me, you'd be dead._

George pauses, flipping through the correspondence from three days ago. Then the self-confident phrase, said by Nightmare, only made laugh. The hero, the police called, but now everything was not so clear.

_That guy stood there and stared at me for a few minutes._

_That guy's still there…_

_That guy is talking to them. THEY'RE LEAVING._

- _Some guy outside my house._  
- _In any case, don't worry, everything will be fine, I promise. Do you believe me?_  
- _Absolutely._

George pauses, looking intently at the picture of the stranger's back that he sent to Nightmare when his heart was pounding with fear and his body was shaking treacherously. Back then, the guy remembered it perfectly, he hated Nightmer for not answering him for too long, disappearing from the network when the guy needed moral support, but now... the too-bright jacket was escaping from under the gray jacket, and the palms holding the phone were hidden under the fabric of fingerless gloves, just like…

The guy looks at his hand. To the right, where the traces of the Nightmare's grip are still clearly visible. He watches, remembering how he winced at the unpleasant friction of the glove cloth against his skin. So that's it…

_If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done it in that half hour, calm down._

Of course, Nightmare knew that the guy wasn't going to hurt him. Of course he did, sitting on the cold curb and feeling George's eyes on his back. I sat and calmed him down, and then, like a fucking prince from a fairy tale, I drove away my detractors. And he stood looking out of his window, which meant that the guy wanted to see him himself, to talk to George. So why did he run away? Why, after being so close twice, did he leave before he could say a word? Would it be the same if the brunette, stunned by everything that happened, did not hear such a familiar low voice, did not understand who he was communicating with? What if he pretended not to know? Common sense, coming out of a binge, whispers something like: «everything is for the best», and this only makes it more disgusting. What the hell's the best?! What can be called «the best» in this situation? Why the fuck did the choice of the right path lead to this? Where did the guy have to turn, so that when opening the Nightmare profile, he would not see a message that he was added to the blacklist?

The guy refreshes the page. Over and over again, like a crazy person. The other person hasn't been online for hours, which is a good indication that he's asleep, but George continues. Five in the morning, three hours before the alarm clock, and no sleep in one eye. Which is a pity. The brunette laughs nervously at the idea that he, as in the game, has run out of the opportunity to skip time, which means that an important plot point has come. And it's kind of funny, but on the other hand, it's completely shitty. The festival is scheduled for one o'clock in the afternoon, and what to do until that moment, the guy has no idea.

He goes into his room, pulling the curtains over the windows with a practiced movement, despite the darkness behind the glass. Don't care, it just makes him feel more comfortable knowing that no one is watching him for sure. Isn't that right? He exhales, sitting back in his chair and turning on the computer with his foot. The guy simply doesn't have any other ideas on how to pass the time, so he has to settle for the simplest and most typical. The desktop is packed with all sorts of games, but half of them have already been completed, and the other is simply not interesting at the moment. The guy does not dare to go to the network, he does not want to hang on the profile of one person again, and therefore simply clicks the cursor on some bright icon of the game, the name of which he does not even know. It turns out to be some simple shooter with elements of sciene fiction, which the guy already started to pass, but abandoned, judging by the preservation, at the very beginning. A suitable time killer. George crunches his fingers, exhaling. «Stop torturing yourself with thoughts of him, it won't make you feel any better, you idiot,» — screams common sense, which was most happy about the blacklist, since it was long overdue, but George can't help himself, just shouts at his schizophrenia, telling her to shut up and not interfere with the game. And don't care that, analyzing the situation and the actions of the interlocutor, George repeatedly loses, unable to concentrate. Don't care, really.

After about an hour or two, the phone in his pocket vibrates, and the guy almost jumps out of the chair, pulling out his smartphone and turning it on. Did he really unlock him? On the other hand, why so early? Knowing the approximate daily routine of the guy, he should have been asleep until nine o'clock, and now he probably isn't even seven. The guy looks at the clock in the upper-left corner for a second, while the social network that the guy is trying to get into hangs, not wanting to launch another little man into his abode. It's really half past six, so what's so early? But it turns out to be easier, and, the guy blames himself for the thought, worse. He's still blacklisted, and Nightmare hasn't been online, but a second account that George knows perfectly well has been activated, and George rolls his eyes. Is this one not sleeping, is he also suffering from a fucking mental trauma?

**Pimpinnit:** Hey, hellooo

George is already thinking about ignoring the message, blaming the fact that it has already been viewed on a non-existent cat, but…

**Pimpinnit:** Reply  
 **Pimpinnit:** Reply  
 **Pimpinnit:** Reply  
 **Pimpinnit:** Reply  
 **Pimpinnit:** You're online, I can see that  
 **Pimpinnit:** Don't tell me you got cold feet at the last minute!  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I'm here.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What was so important that you couldn't wait until morning? We agreed to meet at nine.  
 **Pimpinnit:** Oh, relax! I just saw that you were online recently, and I thought I should write to you. Ask what and how  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Don't do it again…  
 **Pimpinnit:** What are you talking about?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Don't think anymore.  
 **Pimpinnit:** Are you fucking brazen?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** What happened?  
 **Pimpinnit:** I'm telling you, nothing  
 **Pimpinnit:** I just wanted to write, and you are even harmful some  
 **Pimpinnit:** Will you be very angry if we come to you?

George rubs the bridge of his nose, exhaling. So they got to the point. «On the other hand» — the dark-haired man shakes his head, trying to distract himself from the gray thoughts. — «I still have nothing to do, and I don't want to sit and look at my fucking cell phone. Again.»

**NicknameNotFound:** If you break something again, you'll be hanging out on the street.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** Come on in.  
 **NicknameNotFound:** I have some pizza left. Cold, but I think that the taste is not particularly spoiled.  
 **Pimpinnit:** Whoo, what are you feasting on?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** It's more like mourning.  
 **Pimpinnit:** Who are we burying?  
 **NicknameNotFound:** My brains, who decided to leave me two or three weeks ago. I can't think of any other explanation for my idiocy.  
 **Pimpinnit:** How everything is bad…  
 **Pimpinnit:** We'll come soon, don't be afraid

George exhales and, without answering the last message,puts down his cell phone. He doesn't know if he should have invited the three of them at all (and he was sure that Tommy wouldn't be the only one), but on the other hand, the game turned out to be insanely boring and monotonous, there was no one to talk to, and the guy wouldn't have dared to go out on the street, which was still dark, after yesterday's events. At least one. Just thinking about what happened yesterday makes the guy cringe. What would have happened if Nightmare hadn't been there? What would have happened if Nightmare hadn't been there a few days ago? What did he even tell the four of them to turn around and leave? Why couldn't he have said the same thing instead of threatening me with a gun?

_«He said it was a fake…_   
_...and then he confirmed that he had lied»_

_«He doesn't have to lie to me…_   
_...but he was L'manburg»_

_«Perhaps he only arrived this week…_   
_...or was here all the time»_

_«He didn't hurt me…_   
_... perhaps he was waiting for the right moment to attack»_

_«His hands are really bigger than mine…_   
_...and they left me with nothing but bruises. Ironic...»_

GeorGe whines, trying to overcome himself, his lack of confidence in the other person, his fear. Nightmare is a bad guy? How could he hurt him? Break into the house, kill, rob, knowing full well that the guy's house already has nothing more valuable than a computer and an old heater? How could he... hurt him? The guy grabs his head, almost pulling out a clump of hair. The lump, defeated an hour ago, suddenly returns back to the throat, returns and ... disappears. It comes undone, and George pauses for a second, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. He runs a finger down his cheek, suddenly feeling a strange wetness. Is he crying? What the fuck?

«Would you also be worried about not communicating with anyone else?» — the guy asks himself, instantly realizing that he can't answer, even though he knows the answer. He couldn't admit that she was sitting there like a child, crying over the loss of his friend. A friend? A month of communication, what the fuck? And Tommy, Nikki? His neighbors from the previous house, with whom he communicated for years? Why, if they blocked him, would he only feel melancholy? They are also friends, so why the fuck is their disappearance from life not an event that the guy will perceive as «critical». Why was the fact that he couldn't listen to that awesome deep voice, read good morning wishes, share everything that was going on in his boring life so annoying?

Cats are yelling loudly outside the window, despite the fact that it's not fucking March, and there are no cats in George's house. The guy exhales raggedly, squinting in the direction of the curtained window. Need to calm down, come to our senses. He quickly puts on his jacket as he goes outside, carefully not moving more than a couple of steps away from the door. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish thrown out of water, breathing hard in the icy air. Then his throat will hurt, but come on. The cats, having finished their performance, dispersed who where. There was only one big black cat left, sitting on the snow, wagging its tail, and looking straight into the man's eyes with green lights. The boy shuddered. He took a step forward, reaching out to stroke the animal, but the animal, as if laughing at human stupidity and naivety, instantly rose from the snow and, raising its tail like a pipe, scuttled into the darkness, leaving George with nothing. He exhales, lowering his hand in frustration. Why the hell would even cats avoid him like a leper?

— Hey! — George jumps with a sharp cry, looking back in alarm at the main road, where three figures can be seen hurrying towards him. The brunette sadly thinks that not all living beings this morning decided to avoid his communication. All right, though. The three of them were not so terrible, their company was even, perhaps, pleasant, if noisy. And now the guy shushes Tommy, putting his finger to his lips and hissing «wake up the neighbors». And sleepy neighbors, especially elderly representatives, could make a real hell in the yard, so it was worth avoiding their righteous anger.

— Why aren't you sleeping? — Tommy asks cheerfully, collapsing into the hallway. Tubbo follows, flushed from the cold, and Willbur brings up the rear with a guitar, whose appearance makes George raise his eyebrows at him questioningly. Gray, with bruises under his clouded eyes. He only shakes his head negatively, thereby making it clear that he is not going to comment on his condition in any way. Is he ill?

— It doesn't matter. I can't sleep, that's all. The question is, what are you doing up so early? — the guy stretches, pulling off his jacket and hanging it next to the clothes of the guests, who without a word rushed towards the kitchen.

— I can't sleep, that's all, — Tommy mimics George, making the brunette already regret letting the teenager into the house. — We are the revolution started, what the fuck is sleep?

— The plan doesn't look much like a revolution for today, but you keep insisting on calling it a revolution. Why?

— Someone's been watching «Hamilton» too much, Willbur snorts, sitting down at the table. — Will there be tea? I decided that drinking before the festival was not the best idea. Even if it is attractive

George sighs, mentally agreeing with this statement, and points to the two unopened pizza boxes on the nightstand, seeing the fire in the eyes of Tommy and Tubbo, who, instantly taking the hint, quickly grab a box each.

— Hey, dear, there are people here besides you, too, — laughs Willbur, taking the package from Tommy. — This is for us. One is enough for you.

Tubbo, instantly clutching his pizza box to his chest, tries to leave the room with a rapid step, but is instantly caught by Tommy, who was deprived of food.

— Tubbo, be a good boy and share it with Tommy, — George says, trying not to smile, in the tone of an elementary school teacher. The fact that Tubbo had tried to escape, even though he had been caught, was funny enough.

Toby tries to protest, but the box is snatched out of his hands, and Tommy chuckles derisively as he sets it on the table and opens it. Tubbo tries to take a piece, for which he gets a slap and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

— What? You started it first, — Tommy says, taking a bite from a slice of pizza, like a chain dog guarding a box. - It's cold...

George raises his eyes to the ceiling and turns to Willbur, his eyes pleading for help, but where is it? The guy fully enjoys the fun chaos, he also committed, taking a piece of pizza from another box. And he knows he and George won't eat it all, and he took the box from the kids anyway. Tubbo, meanwhile, had managed to get a portion for himself, and now he was chewing hard, watching Tommy look at his bite in a strange way.

— Okay, we need to warm her up. Right now I'll show you a lifehack, write it down, — the teenager suddenly gives out, and after this phrase everyone stops breathing, watching him in fear. Apparently, George wasn't the only one who was bothered by his brilliant ideas. And thank you for that, because he felt like an idiot who was afraid of a child.

Everything turns out to be easier and safer than George thought. The guy just puts a glass of water in the microwave along with a piece of pizza, explaining that this way the pizza will not be dry. And it kind of even works. Tommy does manage to spill a glass of water on himself when he pulls out a plate of pizza, swears, and blows on his burned hand, but that's not really a problem. Next, tries Tubbo, who turns out to be a little more accurate and without injuries, unlike his friend. Willbur refuses this idea, and George simply does not care about the temperature of the food. He is more interested in the boiling kettle.

When Tommy and Tubbo had overheated all their pizza, managed to burn one piece, the tea was poured into mugs, and Willbur took the guitar from the hallway, the four of them moved into the living room, sitting on the floor or on the couch. George chose to sit on the dirty carpet, resenting the piece of furniture that had been hurting his back all morning. At first, they were silent, each thinking about his own thoughts, taking large sips of tea. Willbur, who had been constantly on the phone at all the meetings before, sat looking thoughtfully at the wall. George also stared at the same spot, trying to figure out what interesting things he saw there, but found nothing interesting.

— I wouldn't want you to go to the festival, — Willbur says suddenly, and George chokes on his tea. It seems to be getting into a crappy habit.

— What? — Tommy says, his eyes wide with surprise. – What the fuck, Will?"

— I kind of have to be there, — Tubbo looks at the guy in surprise, exchanging glances with an equally surprised Tommy. — What happened?

— I don't want you to get in trouble for this plan, — the guy hisses, burying his face in his hands and leaning forward. — Why is it so fucking complicated?"

— What's going on? — George says carefully. Not that he wanted to be part of the boys ' plan, but Willbur's behavior was unnerving and even frightening. Or rather, it was the lack of understanding that so frightened the half-revolutionist. But he doesn't answer, just shakes his head, and after a pause continues.

— What the fuck have I got you into? And even George, — the dark-haired man shudders, so strange does his name sound from someone else's mouth. He wondered what he was getting himself into, but this attitude of the mastermind of the whole plan was simply ... abnormal?

— Hey, Will, — Tommy says, holding up his hands as he comes closer. — It's all right, you hear? Each of us fit into this of our own free will, relax! Today we'll just start implementing our plan, no more, and then, maybe in six months, maybe in a year, but we'll save this fucking city. And you'll be there, okay? Don't be a coward, we're with you!

— And, in case of anything, nothing will happen to me. I'll just turn you in to the police and get the money for catching dangerous criminals, " George snorts, and three pairs of eyes instantly turn on him. Even Willbur stopped swaying from side to side, raising his head.

— You're kidding, right? — Tommy asks carefully, and George laughs.

— Probably. Who knows? — the dark-haired man says in a drawl, noting with surprise that he has adopted the manner of communication of Nightmare.

— Don't joke like that, — Willbur snaps. — You remind me of someone I know with these jokes, and I don't want to think about him again.

— Oh, what, is he threatening to turn you in, too? Will you introduce me to him? — the guy smiles, hearing Tommy and Toby laughing at the absurdity of the dialogue behind them.

— Oh, no. You didn't do anything wrong to me to get back at you in such a cruel way, — Willbur snorts, gradually recovering from his strange panic attack.

— Play something, - George says suddenly, and the guy looks at the guitar by the chair he's sitting on. – This is the second time you've brought it, but you didn't play anything last time.

— I think I was playing something, — Willbur says, raising his eyebrows, turning to Tubbo and Tommy, who have begun to choke with laughter at his words. — What?

— You first said that you were not in the mood, and then, drinking a bottle of cognac, played some two-string melody and threw the guitar to the side, saying that you were tired. I don't think George was able to fully appreciate your, ahem, talent.

\- Oh…

  
_The festival is only a few hours away, and George, listening to Willbur play the guitar, thinks that maybe Nightmare will miss him too. So much so that he'd get him off the fucking blacklist and stop running from the guy like they were two kids playing catch-up. That would be cool…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah.. i'm sorry.


	15. Chapter 15

— Dress warmly. It's fucked up outside — Willbur says, returning to the house. How Tommy got the boy to take out the trash was a mystery to George, but he was clearly not happy about it.

The weather really deteriorated several times during the few hours that the guys were sitting in the house. The wind was raging, and the snowfall, which had begun so at the wrong time, swept the newly trodden paths. In this weather, the good owner will not let the dog out, but the four, enjoying the comfort of the house for the last time, hastily gathered. To tell the truth, no one knew what the rush was, the festival was still two hours away, but everyone continued to pull on their jackets and boots at such a speed, as if the guys were at least late for the train. Tommy and Tubbo are having a good time talking nonsense. As far as the guy can figure out from a couple of phrases that he hears, the blonde has obvious problems with his studies, and debts are about to be grabbed by the ass. And instead of taking up a textbook, he decided to overthrow the current ruler. Brilliant as ever.

They leave the house, instantly, as if on cue, putting on their hoods, only Willbur, devoid of such an element, rolls his eyes. In general, when he comes to himself after that strange tantrum, he behaves strangely. I mean, weirder than ever. He constantly turns the phone in his hands, as if he can't decide to call someone, despite the obvious desire, his fingers tremble, as if with excitement. And what a circus it was with the guitar, which he really didn't want to leave at George's house! It feels like his instrument would have been stolen. In an empty, locked house, yeah. George strategically decided not to report the fact that thefts were commonplace in his area, otherwise they would have had to go to the festival with a guitar. And this is considering that it was necessary to go by bus, to the stop of which, by the way, they were going. Well, as they went. Rather, they crawled, miraculously not falling into the snow. At least they're with Will. Tommy and Toby had failed to cope with the disaster halfway through, falling into a snowdrift (George suspected it was no accident), so now the teenagers, flushed from the cold and wet from the snow, were simply trying to catch up with their fellow travelers, interfering with each other. George, worried that if they caught up with them, he would have to roll in a snowdrift, quickened his pace, and Willbur instinctively repeated this action, because, fortunately, they reached the stop dry, even if frozen.

The bus stop is noisy and fun. In addition to the four, a dozen other people were waiting for the bus. The children were jumping in the snowdrifts, throwing snowballs at each other and hiding behind the adults ' feet, and George shivered. Who in their right mind decided to have a child in their neighborhood? If these kids who were having fun weren't kids from another street (which wasn't much different from George's Street, in general), but the guy genuinely felt sorry for them. To think that they were going to live in this shithole until they came of age at least, slowly realizing how different their lives were from the fucking fairy-tale world. Then, probably, they would have only two ways: either they understand that it is impossible to live like this, and go to hell, or they begin to consider what is happening around them absolutely normal behavior, like garbage that lives in the doorways, breeding their own kind. Again, and again, and again. Not the most colorful prospects. Even the first case, which ended relatively well, meant that the children would have to live with their relatives until they came of age, knowing that their life was in the ass, but unable to do anything because of their age. Disgusting…

Tubbo and Tommy are the first to get on the bus. Or rather, Tommy bursts in, shoving people in his way, wanting to take the most convenient, in his humble opinion, place, dragging his friend behind him. He grumbles something, but doesn't resist. Either he does not want to, or he understands that it is more expensive to contradict the blonde. Especially when he decided to play a game of storming the bus, from which he clearly intends to emerge victorious. Willbur and George are almost the last to enter, well aware that it is not worth getting into the crowd. And indeed. Only two-thirds of the bus is occupied, and there are plenty of empty seats, most of them next to Tubbo and Tommy, who wave to them as they enter. It seems that potential neighbors were frightened by the very possibility of sitting nearby with an inadequate blonde, because the other passengers tried to move as far away as possible, to the other end of the cabin. And George, to be honest, didn't blame them in the least for that decision. Moreover, if he had the chance, he would have done the same. But you have to sigh and move to the very end of the bus, sitting down in your favorite place by the window, instantly leaning your cheek against the cold glass. The transport pulls away abruptly, and so the guy almost flies off, putting his hand forward and resting it on the back of the chair where Tommy is sitting. And only then does he notice that the bruises on his arm have not disappeared, but on the contrary, they seem to stand out only more strongly on the cold skin, turning into bright spots. George pauses for a moment, studying them carefully, despite a recent promise to himself that he should at least try not to think about Nightmare. At least until he's alone. To engage in self-examination, at least now, was not worth it. This can take a long time. However, just as George is about to put his hand in his pocket, Willbur, who is sitting next to him, suddenly notices the stains.

— Who grabbed you so hard that you got bruises? — he asks, it seems, more out of politeness, but there is a flicker of interest in the indifferent eyes for a second. Tommy, who has heard the question, turns around in his chair, peering over the back and also staring at the guy's hand, which he hastily hides. He wasn't flattered by the attention.

— Fell.

— What is the trajectory of the fall such that the bruises on the wrist appeared? Willbur snorts. It seems to have become a matter of principle to elicit an uninteresting answer. And great leisure time.

— Who hurt you, Gogy? Tell us, we'll kick his ass — Tommy laughs, cocking his head to the side. Tubbo shakes his head, not even turning, but clearly listening to the dialogue. This is understandable, if only because the screen on his phone has already darkened from inactivity.

— No one offended me, he helped me on the contrary! — the guy tries to fight back, but sees only the growing interest in the eyes of the interlocutors and exhales. — Okay, okay. I was coming home, they tried to rob me, and Ni ... the man who left the bruise stood up for me and helped me get home. Nothing more. Just a firm grip.

The guy smiles nervously and rubs the bridge of his nose, hoping that this explanation will satisfy this pair of detectives. And it seems that it is. At the very least, Willbur immediately loses interest in the conversation, staring at one point and, apparently, thinking about something else. Or he just sleeps with his eyes open. Tommy, on the other hand, was clearly displeased with the brevity of the story, waiting for some sort of continuation.

— So you're in mourning for this? — George looks at the teenager in surprise, trying to figure out what he's even saying.

— What are you talking about?

— Well, you wrote me that you were in mourning and burying your brains. Tommy reaches into the backpack he's brought with him for some reason, pulling out his phone and pointing it at George. — «My brains, who decided to leave me two or three weeks ago. I can't think of any other explanation for my idiocy.» Tell me, what did you do to make yourself an idiot?

George exhales, about to tell the clingy teenager to go away, but then he stops, thinking. I mean, why not tell me? No details, just a superficial story. Just to try to understand what's going on, to draw a conclusion.

— All right, all right. Remember that guy you used to send voice messages to from my phone? — Tommy pauses for a second, trying to remember who he's talking about, and nods. — I spoke with him a few weeks, he said he is not a resident of L'manburg. My house was going to be robbed once, I told him my address, he called the police. And yesterday, well…

The guy exhales, peering at the marks on his hand, pursing his lips. Tommy doesn't rush him, waiting with interest for the denouement.

— I was attacked yesterday, as I said. And the person who helped me… It was that guy, you know? He followed me from the work itself, followed me. He's fucking come to my house before. When I came to, I asked him for this shit, and he just blocked me — the guy throws up his hands, not knowing what else to add. — That's all.

— Are you afraid of him? — Will suddenly joins the conversation again, and George suddenly finds himself unable to answer the question. But no, it's not. He can't answer it the way he should. He resented Nightmare for being so close all the time, but he refused to make contact. It bothered him that the other man had a gunshot, but fear?..

— No. Probably not — the guy shrugs, and the whole company looks at him in surprise, so he has to explain his position. — He's not bad. He did not harm me in any way; on the contrary, he helped me. It was a pleasure to communicate with him and, perhaps, I even miss him. Simply… It's a shame.

— Look, if he really appreciated you as a conversationalist, I'm sure you'll be unblocked in a day or two, — Tommy begins, suddenly serious. — Toby puts me on the blacklist almost every day. It doesn't mean he doesn't want to talk to me.

\- In your case, I suspect that's exactly what it means, - Willbur laughs, leaning back in his chair. George notices out of the corner of his mind that he looks much better than before. Did he feel better?

— Hey!

— He once sent me one hundred and one messages at three o'clock in the morning, which were a count from zero to one hundred. I was asleep, by the way, — Tubbo adds. — Actually, I think he's right. If he really cares about you, he will unlock you. And if not, well... he's a lousy friend then.

— Yes, you're probably right... — the guy freezes, thinking, and takes the phone out of his pocket.

**This user added you to the blacklist.**

_Did he really mean nothing to Nightmare?_

*******

The square where the event was planned is still empty. Only a few sickly-looking guards walk back and forth, slowly shifting their feet. George raises his eyebrows in surprise. And this is the president's security detail? And they couldn't find any healthier ones? Fellow passengers from the bus rushed to take seats closer to the stage, while Tommy suggests waiting in some cafe, and not freezing on the street for an hour and a half. George, deciding that he still has enough for a cup of tea, agrees, as do Tubbo and Willbur, so the blonde hurries away from the crowd. The fact is that he managed to quarrel with some not quite sober man on the bus who ran over Tubbo, said nasty things, and clearly did not want to get on the neck. It was unlikely that the sluggish guards would be able to protect him in time. There was also Willbur with the brass knuckles, but such a scuffle, in any case, would clearly attract unnecessary attention and, most likely, would entail the removal of the group from the festival grounds. In the cafe there are a dozen or two more of the same frozen onlookers, so finding an empty table is quite problematic. The room is full of noise, children are crying from somewhere in the back, and waitresses and waiters, who are used to such an influx of people, are maneuvering between the tables. The city center, after all.

The girl who comes to their table smiles awkwardly and looks around for help from her colleagues when she receives a strange kind of compliment from Tommy, and then looks questioningly at Willbur, who rolls his eyes at this silly childish flirtation. He shakes his head, signaling to the waitress not to take the teenager's words seriously, and quickly dictates the general order that was discussed by the company a few minutes ago. As soon as the girl moves away from their table, Tommy gets a slap on the head from Will, and Tubbo can no longer hold back the laughter that is bursting out.

— Hey! What the fuck?

— This is a question for you, what the fuck are you doing with a girl? The alpha male is half-assed, damn it! — Willbur hisses. — Did you really want her to call security, or what? What were you hoping for when you asked her to almost suck dick?

— Well, what's the big deal? I was just kidding! Ow! Stop it! — the guy shouts when he gets a second slap on the head.

— You only need to joke with people who understand your jokes, especially when they carry a sexual subtext, — Will almost growls.

— Besides, it's just not polite to a girl." She seemed to be afraid of you and was looking for a security guard in case of something, " George adds, closing his eyes and leaning back on the sofa he occupied with Tubbo, while Tommy and Willbur had to sit down on the chairs.

— Oh, oh! You should give me advice, Gogy! — the blonde snaps, looking at his comrades from under his brows.

— I doubt George is trying to «roll balls» at all the girls within two meters of him, — Tubbo laughs, looking at his friend's annoyed face.

— Yeah, and that's why he's living alone at twenty-four, playing computer games all his free time, and hanging out with a strange guy who stalks him and leaves bruises on his hands, - the teenager rolls his eyes, snorting as George freezes, unsure of how to respond to this phrase that's been sucked out of finger.

— I've had girlfriends!

— The girl you shared a desk with in elementary school doesn't count, — Tommy laughs, enjoying watching the boy's flushed face as he opens and closes his mouth like a fish stranded on a beach, not knowing what to say to the guy at all.

— Tommy, stop it, — Willbur snorts, crunching his fingers and nodding lazily at the waiter who brings them their order. — You scared the girl so much that she passed the order to another waiter. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?

*******

— Get your asses up, it's time to go already, or we'll be standing at the very end — when the festival is ten minutes away, Will says, turning to George and Tommy. Tubbo left ten minutes after the order arrived. He should also start preparing for the festival, where Schlatt decided to show off the fresh meat in the organization, putting them behind him. And I don't care that it's cold outside, and the stage is covered with snow. Someone really wanted to talk about how many "young people" support him. Well, whatever the child is not amused by…

George looks out the window, lazily starting to get up from his perch, wishing once again that he hadn't agreed to this adventure. He could sit at home, play video games, drink hot tea, and instead he has to leave the cozy cafe, which smelled pleasantly of coffee and some pastries, and listen to the speech of the fed-up ruler, shivering from the cold. Amazing weekend!

The square is crowded and noisy, and reporters have taken their seats, ready to shoot reports for all sorts of news channels, showing the current situation from their own side. The question really is, is «their side» beneficial to the government, or will these journalists then, in the spring, be dug out of some snowdrift? The guards had been replaced, but the men who replaced them were still sluggish and sickly-looking. And, apparently, they were really fucked up. George was already afraid — more skates would be thrown right on the square, creating a fuss. But they didn't seem to be going to die yet, despite their obvious desire to do so. And it looked ... creepy. Even more eerie were the people standing in the shade of the trees, watching what was happening in the square with eager interest. It took George a long time to notice them, and when he did, he couldn't take his eyes off them. It looked so wrong and frightening that the guy looked around for the guards to inform them about suspicious people on the territory, but they were not nearby, so all he had to do was nod in the direction of the mysterious personalities, drawing the attention of his fellow travelers to them.

— Why are they standing there? Don't have enough space? — Tommy raises his eyebrows in surprise, turning his questioning gaze to Willbur, who looks ... shocked. — Hey, what are you doing?

— Why the fuck are there so many of them? — the guy says in confusion, hastily looking around, as if looking for someone.

— What?

— So it's not their presence that bothers you, but their number? — George raises his eyebrows, knowing with a seventh sense that something is wrong, but not knowing what it is. And these strangers in the shadows, and the fact that Will knew a little more about them than George did, was seriously annoying. Do they know each other? What the fuck is going on?

— Come on, — Willbur hisses through his teeth, pushing through the crowd to the very edge. Tommy tries to find out something, but only gets another slap on the head. — It's going to start soon, and I need to see Tubbo.

— Stop hitting me!

— I didn't hit you, — the guy chuckles, hands in his pockets, continuing to push people aside, making his way to no one knows where, and his fellow travelers can only follow him, looking at each other.

— What was that? And in the cafe?

— And they were preventive slaps on the back of the head — the guy laughs, but George can see how tense he is. Who are those people?..

— There you are! — There's an exclamation as the boys finally emerge from the sea of people, taking up, for some reason George doesn't understand, a place at the side of the crowd. The trio looks around, instantly spotting Tubbo hurrying towards them, waving his arms and shivering in the cold. In the hour that they had not seen him, he had changed into a suit that, although thick and warm enough, could not completely protect him from the cold, and snowflakes fell into his shoes, which were almost polished to a shine. The snowfall wasn't going to end. — Why are you so far away? Come on, we'll have a better view from the center!

— No, you shouldn't, — Willbur says, fiddling with the phone and checking the time. There are only a few minutes left before the festival starts. — Don't you have to be on stage? The festival is about to start…

— Well, we won't show up right away. Everyone is getting ready there now. — Tubbo rolls his eyes wearily. — Where to hurry it is unclear. So I decided to escape from this chaos. I'd rather talk to you for a minute or two.

— I'm afraid your moment of communication is over, — Tommy laughs, nodding his head toward the stage where people are beginning to come out. Tubbo, cursing, rushes in the same direction. - Just fix your tie!

— Good luck, Tubbo, — Willbur almost whispers, looking after the fleeing teenager, but Tommy doesn't seem to hear it. And George gets goosebumps all over the place. It's not all good.

*******

Schlatt doesn't show up immediately, after half an hour of some guy talking about how the city has been transformed in a few years, how its infrastructure has improved, that new public transport has been launched all over the city (George, who rides an old, broken-down bus every day, raises his eyebrows skeptically. Really?). All this is like trying to convince the citizens that everything is not so bad, and the head of the city is perfectly coping with his duties. Who only believes in this? Schlatt, who appeared on the stage later, says about the same thing, adding a few lines from himself about how important everyone is to him, how every night he wakes up from a nightmare that someone in the city is unhappy, and so on, and so on. That's what, but he knows how to pour water perfectly. Tubbo, standing behind the head of the city with a dozen other workers like him, smiles awkwardly, swaying from side to side from the cold, feeling uncomfortable with such attention to his modest person.

Neither Tommy nor George pays any attention to Willbur, who suddenly turns on the phone he had been fiddling with. They also do not notice how quickly, looking around, he quickly types something to someone. Or rather, they don't really care, George listens to the noodles that are not very skillfully trying to hang on his ears, Tommy proudly watches Tubbo, as if the fact that the guy is now on stage is his, Tommy, merit. But here's the fact that he suddenly throws the phone aside, smashing it on the pavement, a surprised half-cry-half-question from Tommy, who turns sharply to Will.

— What the fuck?

But when he doesn't get an answer, the guy stares at nothing, his lips moving soundlessly, and George is suddenly horrified to realize what he's counting.

_8..._

_9..._

_10!_

Somewhere in the distance there is an explosion. It does not deafen only for the reason that the object that was blown up is at a sufficient distance from the crowd in the square. A woman screams, and the journalists turn the camera in the direction from which the sound came, hoping to capture excellent material. George, who has spun around in fright at the sound of the pop, turns abruptly back to Willbur, horrified to realize that he is no longer with him and Tommy, just a glimpse of the edge of his raincoat disappearing into the crowd.

— Willbur! — Tommy, who also noticed the missing guy, looks around for his friend, but in vain, he easily disappeared into a pile of noisy people, leaving nothing but a broken phone on the ground.

George's intuition screams to get out of the square as soon as possible, but the guy freezes like a frightened hare before a wolf, unable to move, and then…

And then the shots ring out. Loud, ear-splitting sounds, while the smell of gunpowder and metal fills the air. George can't move, hearing the screams of the people around him, staring at the stage in horror. Schlatt's body lies on top of it, pouring blood from multiple bullet holes onto the floor. The body instinctively shudders, trying to bring the host to his senses, but the brain has already begun to shut down, which suggests that the attempts of the dying organism are futile. Behind the dying ruler, the shuddering bodies of the workers who a minute ago were standing on the stage, smiling at the cameras, lie in an uneven pile on top of each other. Tubbo seems to be in the biggest pile. It's getting hard to breathe. Tommy is shouting next to him, screaming for his friend.

Shots are fired again. But not on stage this time. The crowd of people rushing to the exit. _Is this the end?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's the beginning of the shit.


	16. Chapter 16

George does not run, standing still and not blinking, looking at the scene, from which blood dripped in red drops, staining the newly fallen snow. Despite the chaos around him, the boy is not afraid. More precisely, he can not fully realize what is happening. In the ears — fucking cotton wool, which muffles the sounds, thereby preventing the instinct of self-preservation to give a single command, which is vital at the moment: «Run, you idiot!».

Tommy shouts next to him, not daring to run, looking, like George, at the stage. But it is not the blood that slowly drips into the snowdrift, but the bodies that lie in a heap behind the corpse of the former president. Some of them do not show any signs of life, while others try to crawl out from under the bodies of their comrades, clutching at the wounds that stand out brightly on their clothes like bard spots. George sees Tubbo, who is coughing, trying to get out of a kind of trap, holding his bleeding side with his hand, trying to somehow. Is he alive?..

The dark-haired man seems to be hit on the head with something heavy, bringing him back to reality. He shudders, finally freeing himself from the numbness that has gripped his mortal body, realizing with horror what a situation he is in. It's as if the sound is turned on, and the guy is deafened by the noise that he did not notice before. The screams of the people almost drown out the gunfire. Someone screams in fear, someone in pain. The body, which has fallen just a few feet from George, wheezes nastily, saying goodbye to its life, and the guy flinches either from horror or disgust, when the blood from the punctured head, soaked in the snow, begins to get to the feet of the guy.

George exhales, determined to do something that could cost both him and Tommy their lives, and is just turning to leave the park, grabbing the teenager by the sleeve and preparing to run, when he hears a loud voice: «Fall to the ground! Now!». The guy looks around, in a hurry, looking for the person who shouted this, not thinking anything at the moment, but then he is knocked to the ground by a strong push, and after him, also receiving a tangible push, Tommy flies. George gradually regains consciousness, hearing gunshots above his head, without trying to get up. Slowly, he also realizes that if he escapes, as planned, to the exit-the chances of survival would be minimal. He would have just been shot through the skull. So lying down on the ground, pretending to be dead, was probably the best solution. Unless, of course, the goal of the terrorists who attacked them was to completely destroy all the people in the square. Tommy, clearly dumbfounded by what has happened, squirms, trying to get to his feet, and George, lying on his stomach, sees out of the corner of his eye how Tommy's face is buried in the snow, forcing him to lie down.

— Don't get up, you idiot. They'll shoot you — the man next to him hisses, and the dark-haired man freezes, listening. Even now, lying in the snow, red with blood, and hearing his fellow citizens being slaughtered, he could NOT help but recognize that voice. He could see the gloved hand holding the back of Tommy's head, telling him not to get up, horrified to realize who their sudden rescuer was

— What the...? — the guy whispers, without taking away the confused and frightened look from the person who sits very close. Sitting? Doesn't the fact that bullets are flying over his head bother him at all?

— Hush, it should be over now, — it's a mystery to George how he even managed to hear his question, which was not asked until the end, in such a chaos. But he heard it, turning to the boy, trying to calm him down. Will it end? Why? The dark-haired man stared fearfully at the face of the speaker, half hidden for some reason by a medical mask. He twitches, trying not to crawl away, or to get closer to the person sitting so close. Just like the last two times, damn it. So close-reach out your hand, but in fact, to cross this damn meter is an impossible task. A herd of goosebumps runs through his body, and the guy clenches his teeth, suddenly realizing that he no longer hears the sounds of gunshots, only the screams and death rattles of others. Were they not going to kill everyone, or were they just given the command to finish the groundless extermination of the population?

George coughs, the foul smell of gunpowder tickling his nostrils. Gunpowder and metal enveloped the entire area. The dark-haired man knows it's the smell of blood. He remembers once finding a cat in an abandoned barn, stoned to death, when he was a child. He remembered how the smell, soaking into the wet boards after the rain, would not let him breathe for several weeks, as soon as he entered the room when he was playing with other children. Perhaps the most interesting thing about this situation was that the other children stopped smelling the metal after two days, while George, going into the barn, playing hide-and-seek, instantly saw the cat's corpse and the pool of blood in front of him, and felt this disgusting smell. Psychological. The guy understands that it is unlikely that ever in his life he will be able to go to this square again. Go in without feeling a huge revulsion from the images that flash before your eyes. He tries to get to his feet, but his body, as if weakened, refuses to obey, and the guy again falls into a snowdrift, unable to do such a simple and natural action as lifting. He turns his head, seeing the body of the man who lost his life in front of his eyes, half a meter away from him. The head is pierced, it seems, through and through. Glass eyes, bulging with horror, look directly at the dark-haired man. Or rather, through it. Somewhere beyond the reach of a mere mortal's gaze. Lips, nose, neck-all covered with threads of blood, which, flowing from the body, paint the fresh snow that fell ten minutes ago, creating a bizarre web that a skilled spider weaves from strings, creating a fascinating picture.

Tommy gets to his feet and stares at the guy for a second before rushing to the stage. George knew he would. Choosing between him and Tubbo-the teenager will not hesitate to choose Tubbo, he does not blame him. However, a gloved hand comes to the rescue, which again, as yesterday, grabs his wrist, lifting him up. Again. George even thinks that if this time there are marks on the skin, they will be identical to the previous bruises. He does not resist, but also does not help, his body seems to have turned into a bag of potatoes, refusing to follow the simplest commands, so they sit him down on the snow, shaking him violently by the shoulders, trying to bring him to himself. George hisses something unintelligible through his teeth, looking at the man in front of him, feeling like a complete idiot and torn by conflicting emotions. Rage, annoyance, incomprehension, and fucking fear are all the things a guy should be feeling at the moment, but then why is relief, and fucking joy, beating so brightly in front of all the negative feelings? What is there to be happy about? The fact that the lying idiot with the fucking voice is around again? Pulling him out of some shit that George is up to his waist in again?

He want to say something, the brunette opens his mouth, but then closes it — Wants to, but the vocabulary seems to be empty, so the guy has no idea what to say. And what, frankly, should be done. In such a situation! A dull pain pulls his knee, and George winces, lowering his gaze, but instantly exhaling — apparently just knocked off during the fall, no traces of blood, and the guy does not feel a metal bullet in the flesh (to the greatest relief!). And Nightmare… He just stands there, looking down at the guy sitting in the snow, then quickly looking back at the stage, where Tommy has already run up, grabbing Tubbo's hand and trying to help him out from under the dead and unconscious bodies.

— Aren't you tired of getting into trouble yourself? — quiet, almost silent. George doesn't know what to say, so he just cringes in a strange, childish way. A herd of goosebumps runs through his skin again, and so strong that he is sure that if Nightmare touches him now, he will certainly feel it too. — Get up. You need to get to a pharmacy somewhere. I don't think you'll be able to reach an ambulance.

— Why? — hoarse, broken. George swallows, not recognizing his own voice. Well, he can't speak so weakly, so childishly. But, however, he grabs the outstretched hand, wincing at the pain. Did you twist leg?

\- Did you hear the explosion? - George nods slowly, and can see Willbur counted to ten. - The connection was disconnected. Right now, only emergency calls are working, but I don't think there are enough ambulances for all the injured. So you'd better get to the nearest pharmacy and buy some anti-shock painkillers, and wait for help there.

— Why are you here? — my head is splitting. George seems to think that he was delirious, he has a fever, hallucinations. All this seems so unreal, wrong, that it is almost impossible to believe in everything that is happening. But the hand he grasped as he rose is real. And still cold.

— Do you really think this is a good time to discuss this? — George purses his lips as he snorts nervously. It's so strange to hear that voice live, that mockery that occasionally flickered in the voice messages sent to him. The brunette pauses for a second before forcefully grabbing the guy in front of him. He clearly does not expect this. Why, George hadn't expected to be so quick himself, grabbing the man in front of him by the front of his shirt.

— Answer me! Answer me the fuck! Why are you here why are you in L'manburg the fuck?! Why did you lie then, why was you near my house when they tried to rob me, why the fuck did you help me yesterday? What's happening? I just… I just want to, if not justify you, then at least somehow understand... - the guy almost whispers, feeling his hands being grabbed, not allowing him to stretch his clothes anymore. He feels so weak that a nasty lump again inflates in his throat, which does not care about the desires of the host of the body.

\- Calm down, you're having a tantrum — the guy exhales. Strange, unnatural, torn. - Later. Just later.

— Later?

— Yeah. I think we should discuss enough things, don't you think? — the guy chuckles. It was so easy and simple, as if they were now standing not knee-deep in corpses, but accidentally met in the park. — But it seems that the conversation will have to be postponed until better times. What do you think?

George doesn't know what to say. The determination that had appeared in him a few minutes ago flowed out of him without a trace, like hot lava, flowing somewhere down, closer to the sore leg. As a compromise, you have to shrug your shoulders, saying:" If you want, then fine." In any case, in this particular period of time, he ceases to care for a second about the person who grabbed his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a strange movement on the stage and freezes, turning sharply in that direction. Tommy, hit in the side by a heavy boot, falls to the ground like a puppy kicked off by a sock. Tubbo, having lost his footing, falls to the ground, turning in fright towards his friend, who, trying to get up, gets a second blow, but this time in the stomach, and bends in half, whimpering in pain. The man standing over the teenager points a gun in his direction, picturesquely removing it from the safety. The eyes that flicker in the sockets of the strange-looking mask, which is the skull of some animal, seem red for a second to Tommy. George jerks, and sort of shouts something, not sure what to do at all, not immediately noticing that the person who was standing next to him a second ago is missing. It's just as simple as the last time. He left without saying goodbye, leaving the guy alone with his thoughts and fears, which began to envelop him with his head, as soon as he looked at the stage again.

The man who had hit Tommy was shouting something in his face, pointing the gun, and the teenager seemed to be trying to respond in kind, but George couldn't hear what they were saying, as if he was stunned by everything that had happened in the last... ten minutes? It seemed like at least an hour had passed. And then… Then ... George doesn't have time to understand what, in general, happened «then». He sees Tommy rise abruptly from the ground, grabbing his wounded friend by the arm, and, under the man's mocking gaze, he rushes away from the square. He doesn't do it fast — the kicks were obviously serious, and Tubbo is not in a state to move properly — try running around with a hole in his side. But they are clearly in a hurry, and the guy, imbued with this hurry, rushes after them, turning back to the stage for the last time. Two more people climb it. Two people who, as it seemed only a short time ago, were perfectly familiar to George. Nightmare grabs the masked man by the shoulder, shaking him, drawing attention to himself, and says something hurriedly, jerking his head in the direction of the trio leaving the square. George also sees Willbur standing a little way off, reloading his pistol. And it gets scary.

*******

With difficulty, the trio reaches an alley, where Tubbo, unable to stand on his feet any longer, falls to the snow, gasping for air. The clothes are soaked in blood, and the face turns pale — the loss of vital fluid for the body is too great. Tommy pulls off his jacket, putting it on his shivering friend, who struggles feebly, muttering something he can't make out. The guy has a semi-fainting, semi-delusional state. George puts his hands in his pockets to get out his phone and, despite what Nightmare says, at least tries to call an ambulance (without even knowing where they are), but he doesn't find it there, starting to look around in a hurry, but alas! He doesn't see the black box with the screen in the snow, so he checks his jacket again. Dropped it or stolen it in a crowd? The guy has no idea, almost crying from the cocktail of feelings that this festival brought him. Feels really broken. Morally. And the lost phone seems to be the last straw. The climax. A fucking apotheosis, after which, by all rights, the performance should be finished, but it, like the worst nightmare, does not end in any way. And George has to sit in the front row, strapped to a chair, ready to leave, but there is no way to do that, so he can only watch as the world that was so familiar only a few weeks ago collapses. Willbur finds them quickly enough, literally in three or four minutes. George, who has settled down in the snow, hears the crunch of snow under his heavy boots, and he grimaces in disgust as he looks up at the man who has entered the alley. The hands gripping the gun are tense and seem to even tremble. Is he nervous?

Tommy notices the man approaching their group a little later, just a second later. He looks around sharply, checking to see if they're being chased, and almost whispers, fearfully clutching at Tubbo, who is rapidly losing touch with reality.

— Will! There! There's ... there's a man who started shooting on the stage, he ... he hit me and said… He said that — George doesn't understand a damn thing, and Willbur doesn't, so the teenager exhales and, with a sigh, takes in as much air as possible, clearly, as in school before the blackboard, gives out. — They want to kill us. We are being chased by some incompetent. We have to run.

— You can take your time.

—What? — says Tommy, surprised, not knowing what he's talking about, and George has a flash of the three of them standing on the stage, covered in the blood of Schlatt and his subordinates. The Three Horsemen of the apocalypse.

— They're in league with that guy, — the dark-haired man breathes, glaring at Willbur, who has turned his head to look at him. Tommy looks from one guy to the other in surprise, as if he didn't hear George, and then abruptly leans back, covering Tubbo with his back. — He... they were standing on the stage together.

— Don't touch him, — the teenager hisses, meaning his friend, and Will stares at the pale teenager, who is struggling to keep his body awake.

— Let's go, - the guy suddenly puts the gun somewhere in his belt, waving his hand to the guys and, already leaving the alley, shouts. — He needs to be taken to the hospital. Several ambulances had already arrived at the pharmacy.

No one dares to take a step, so the guy sighs, returns, and, despite the furious swearing at him, puts Tubbo on his back, grunting like an old grandfather. But when Tommy tries to kick him in the stomach, trying to fight off his friend, he does not hold back an indignant growl.

— You idiot! I want to help you! — and then, as if realizing the effect he's had on the boys, he speaks a little quieter and calmer. — I don't care what anyone thinks of me right now. And you, Tommy, don't have to worry about me right now, but about Tubbo, who's about to die! So stop acting like a child. You wanted to play like an adult — go ahead, here's your chance.

Tommy lets out a ragged breath and nods after a moment. Tubbo's dying, Will's right. This is not the time for a showdown. George doesn't like this shit at all.

_But who will listen to him?_

*******

— You need to get out of town, — Willbur says suddenly, as they reach the nearest ambulance, and Tubbo, already completely unconscious, is handed over to the doctors. — I don't know what Blade's up to anymore. You're putting yourself in danger by staying here.…

— What? — Tommy's tongue barely moves. The teenager is scared, exhausted. George can see that it's only his own stubbornness that keeps him on his feet — his legs are already shaking with fatigue.

— Besides, I've been assigned to kill you.

— What? — Tommy, shrinking back open, terrified eyes looking at him, and George was only pursed his lips. He knew it. Understood when the man nodded his head in the direction of the fleeing trio, and Willbur began to reload the gun. George was ready to die. Probably. But he was not ready for the fact that the guy so honestly confesses to the teenager in his plans. To the fact that he will spare, help, and not shoot, like a hunter, an unwanted dog.

— Do you remember when we asked you to grant us asylum? — George nods. The adam's apple trembles treacherously. Why is he such a rag?.. — Now it is more than ever useful. I don't want Tommy to get hurt, either. You'll hide there. I don't know how long. For two weeks, for three. No matter. Simply… Just stay safe, okay?

Willbur smiles tightly at the startled Tommy, reaches out, and ruffles his hair. And he chuckles. And George doesn't think he's lying. Not now. He lied dozens, hundreds of times. All of them. But not now. He's terribly honest now. Why? Because of Tubbo, who was pumped out by the doctors and connected to the IVs, and taken to the hospital with sirens? Was he really afraid of seeing the unconscious body of the blond somewhere in the snow?

— This isn't the end? — Tommy doesn't resist, just stares blankly through Willbur, and George feels that he, too, is broken. That he wasn't the only one strapped to a chair in a fucking theater, trying to escape. But it doesn't work. And there are no more forces for new attempts, to tell the truth.

Willbur shakes his head, gives George a good-bye pat on the shoulder, and disappears into the alley. Quickly, quickly. Neither that they did not have time to stop him, nor that they did not decide to stay.

Tommy slumps into the snow, covering his face with his hands. And George can barely restrain himself from doing the same.

_Shit._


	17. Chapter 17

**NighTMAre:** you know, this world is funny enough when you think about it  
**NicknameNotFound:** What do you mean?  
**NighTMAre:** to be a full-fledged member of society, you don't actually need to represent anything  
**NighTMAre:** and it's funny  
**NighTMAre:** to be a genius in your own way, you just have to be ordinary. A little smarter than a complete idiot  
**NicknameNotFound:** I don't know what you're talking about…  
**NicknameNotFound:** Can you explain?  
**NighTMAre:** look, being the «right» person is nothing if you think about it. You just… exist. You have the main tasks.  
**NighTMAre:** you can be an engineer, but you're not really anything. You just programmed to the simplest programs that others will be able to perform in exactly the same way as you, if they know the basics  
**NighTMAre:** the «right» people, if you think about it, have nothing significant in their lives. They simply exist to execute the simplest programs laid down by the system. They come home from work, kiss their wife, eat, fuck, go to bed. Then the children, the house, the tree. Divorce, old age alone, and death

**NighTMAre:** how many of these «right» people walk the streets?  
**NighTMAre:** sometimes you look at a person, and you know for sure that he is «right». He doesn't live. It simply exists for the execution of the commands. And he's dumb. A complete idiot, frankly. But you put up with it. You grit your teeth, but you endure  
**NighTMAre:** he's proving something to you, and you're not even arguing anymore. It doesn't make sense. He's too stupid. And because you get away with it, leaving him as the winner in the dispute  
**NighTMAre:** and sometimes you communicate with your old friend, and suddenly you realize that he is a "right" citizen. The right cell of society. And so it becomes disgusting. But you can't tell him openly that he is incredibly stupid, because he does everything the same as others. Correctly. Just as you need to do  
**NighTMAre:** and who set this framework? Who the fuck knows…  
**NighTMAre:** but they try to observe them, and if you do not observe them, you are the scum of society  
**NighTMAre:** funny, isn't it?  
**NicknameNotFound:** ...  
**NicknameNotFound:** I'm afraid I'm the «right» person… 

**NighTMAre:** hah, if you were «right» — I wouldn't communicate with you:)  
**NicknameNotFound:** How do I know that you don't just tolerate me?  
**NighTMAre:** pf, why would I do that? Judge for yourself, I do not get any benefit from communicating with you, in addition to moral satisfaction, so why should I put up with you, if I am not interested in you?  
**NicknameNotFound:** «Moral satisfaction»?  
**NighTMAre:** you're a pleasant conversationalist, lost-boy. And, perhaps, I can call communication with you a full-fledged rest  
**NighTMAre:** i've already told you that you're amazing  
**NighTMAre:** and this does not fit the definition of «the right person»  
**NicknameNotFound:** Yes, but isn't this definition, this framework, just for you?  
**NicknameNotFound:** I'm the «wrong» person just for you, while the other seven billion think I'm just a regular cell, don't they? 

**NighTMAre:** do you care about the opinions of people you've never crossed paths with in your life? NicknameNotFound: I don't care, but still… It's a shame, isn't it?  
**NighTMAre:** I'm sure no one who knows you would call you "right". You're too cool to fit that definition.  
**NighTMAre:** and in general, two o'clock in the morning  
**NighTMAre:** go to sleep, asshole  
**NicknameNotFound:** So you started the conversation)  
**NighTMAre:** i've changed my mind. I don't want to talk to you anymore  
**NighTMAre:** go to sleep  
**NicknameNotFound:** Hah, and good night to you)

George, awakened by the announcement of his and Tommy's station, is standing by the door, stretching sleepily and swaying to the beat of the electric train, when a recent conversation with Nightmare suddenly pops into his head. Is it recent? When did it happen? A week ago, two weeks ago? And, perhaps, it was more of a monologue. The guy has flashbacks from that day, although he can't even remember the exact date of that correspondence. He remembers leaning back in his hard chair, sadly reading the words of the other person, taking another sip of tea, and feeling, frankly, not very well. And not because it was after midnight, and tomorrow he was waiting for a tiring job, but because in the words of the interlocutor he saw himself, aimlessly living a life of solitude. And it was very unpleasant to feel the nasty bitterness that began to spread through my body. He is the very «cell of society». Undoubtedly necessary, but ... unimportant. There are millions of people like him. If he dies, another employee, perhaps a more productive one, will take his place in the office. At the time, the correspondence had left George feeling bad, making him feel like hell. Until then, as he Nightmare has not written about their relationship to George. So directly, honestly, without hiding the fact that, if he was not interesting, he would not communicate with him at all. From some point of view, perhaps, it should have been strange, but at that particular moment, the guy clearly felt like he was bursting with a strange happiness that rapidly filled his entire body, making him almost glow with joy. Someone needs it. Someone needs him not for the sake of some benefit, but only because it is pleasant for a person to communicate with him. It was nice. Insanely nice, damn it.

And so, finding himself on the blacklist, George felt like garbage that was thrown out in the trash. Unnecessary. It's a disgusting feeling. But if he was really unnecessary, would the mysterious interlocutor have helped him then, on the square? Wouldn't you leave me to die like dozens of other people? The guy honestly tries not to think about that Nightmare somehow involved in all of what happened then. He's not a killer, is he? It can't be…

George shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, pulling it back, trying to pull himself together. Don't think! You can't! He promised himself that he wouldn't think about it, so why the fuck is his head full of Internet acquaintances again, is he really such a weak-willed cretin, unable to just not think about a person? About one very specific person, the thoughts of which settled in his head for permanent residence two weeks ago, it seems. Or maybe all three. Or since they first met? From the first message, from the first fucking compliment? The guy is shaking, approaching the most that neither is a real hysteria. Looking at him, you'd think he was stoned. And you can't explain how much he had to endure in just two days — they'll believe it. Fortunately, the car is empty, she and Tommy are almost the only passengers on the entire train, who decided to go on a trip to the city limits at night. Tommy, by the way, notices the guy's condition, but has no idea what he needs to do, so he just slaps George on the shoulder. And this, surprisingly, works. The dark-haired man shakes his head like a dog out of a pond and exhales sharply. We must hold on, be strong. He is not the only one who is hard and afraid. Such panic attacks he is only going to scare a teenager. And this should not be done. He must be strong. Owe... to whom?

The sleepy voice of the driver announces the arrival of the train at the final station. Well, here we are…

*******

They walk in silence. Here, almost outside the city, it is more than ever felt that the winter snow fell many times more than usual. Either because of the lack of street sweepers, or the snowfall outside the city was really stronger, but the guys are knee-deep in snowdrifts, shivering from the cold. Every five minutes you have to stop to shake the snow out of your shoes, and therefore the journey on foot is many times longer than George expected. It would be morning in a few hours, and they were just beginning to approach the small house, the roof of which was covered with snow, and the porch, too, it seemed. You can't see it from afar. Tommy, to whom the dark-haired man nodded at the house, which stood at a distance from all the other houses in the small village, seemed to perk up. At the very least, his movements became faster, and his expression no longer suggested that he was ready to fall into a snowdrift and fall asleep in it. According to the teacher — it should be warm.

The porch and the door are covered with snow, and the entrance has to be literally dug out in order to get to the door lock. Tommy sniffs in frustration as George walks around the property, looking at the outside of the house, before getting the keys. However, everything was clean. It was exactly the same as it had been a few years ago, the windows were intact, and the small shed had not been broken into. If they were robbed, then the robbers were the most accurate and polite people in the world — they even closed the doors with a key, respect to them. And the hallway is just as cold as it is outside, which Tommy clearly doesn't expect, intending to keep warm.

— Why the fuck is it so cold in here? — the teenager seems to have a tooth in his mouth, and George has no right to judge him for it. Fucking mallet…

― Well, no one lives in the house, so we turn off the boiler so that nothing happens, ― George shrugs, throwing the bags of food and basic necessities on the floor. Tommy hesitates for a second, then does the same. Don't take your clothes off — you'll freeze. You need to warm up the house first, or you won't turn into ice statues for long.

― And like, nothing works at all. Light, water there? ― the teenager pulls his jacket tighter around him, looking around.

― Good question, ― George nods, carefully reaching for the light switch that hangs on the wall.

The guy closes his eyes, unsure whether any other equipment is still working in the house, and whether the light bulb that he intended to turn on will fly off in his face, having previously broken into a hundred or two pieces. But, thank all the existing (or non-existent) gods, this does not happen. A dusty light bulb hanging on one wire begins to hum disgustingly, as if perplexed that someone decided to turn it on for the first time in several years, but it still lights up, dimly illuminating a dirty corridor covered with a centimeter layer of dust.

― Wow, it works. I hope you're not allergic to dust, are you? ― as if by the way, the guy clarifies, coming out of the corridor into a room that was planned as a living room, but somehow in the process of construction mixed with the dining room and kitchen, and therefore now represents a kind of hybrid.

— If I was, I'd be dead by now, ― the teenager snorts, looking around «the sights» with interest. He kicks the carpet, which is rolled up in the corner of the room, and runs his hand over the plastic that covers the sofa. — What's that for?

― Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure. But it seems to protect the furniture from dirt and insects, ― the guy casts an indifferent glance at the furniture, barely remembering where the switch is, and turning on the light. ― Actually, we'll have to clean it up tomorrow, just so you know.

― Are you kidding? ― Tommy raises his eyebrows. ― It will take only a month to clean it up!

― Nothing like that ― George opens the door to one of the two bedrooms, giving it a cursory glance. He had once spent days and weeks here when his parents took him out of town. — One or two days, and the house is cleaned and ready for long-term living.

— I didn't sign up for this!

— And I didn't sign up to be shot at during the festival, but they did! ― George turns to the teenager and folds his arms across his chest. ― Stop being hysterical. Today we sleep as much as we can, and tomorrow afternoon we start cleaning up.

― I should have let myself get shot, it would have been less of a problem, ― Tommy mutters, but George doesn't listen to him anymore, having gone somewhere deeper into the house. - Hey, where are you?

― Here! Come on! ― comes a voice from the back of the house, and Tommy hurries over. Despite the fact that the house looks quite presentable, but he still does not want to stay alone. George is in some storage room, trying to lift a heavy trapdoor off the floor. — What are you standing for? Help me!

— What the fuck are you doing? ― Tommy asks, grabbing the handle as well, struggling to lift the heavy hatch and open the descent into the darkness.

— Well, it's supposed to be like a typical horror movie, isn't it? - George laughs. Being in this house seemed to breathe life into him, to make him forget all the shit that was going on in his life for a while. It's not so important right now. He's home. — We'll go down into a dark and terrible basement and find some Devil who's been sitting there for seventy years and can't get out. We'll help him, and he'll eat us and make an apocalypse. That sounds cool.

— It sounds like you're using something, but I can't figure out what, ― the teenager laughs, walking down the rickety stairs into the darkness.

Willy-nilly, Tommy really remembers all those horror movies in which the hapless residents of country houses in the basement are attacked by various poeben, eating only fresh human flesh, but George quickly turns on the light, and the frightening images immediately recede. Just a small basement room, decorated with wood, the walls of which are filled with shelves with various, at first glance, dusty garbage. George looks with interest at the various tools on the shelves. Maybe there still lives a maniac who tortures lost travelers with these hellish devices? George goes to the box that hangs on the wall, looks behind it, turns some taps, biting his lip.

― Tommy, run upstairs and turn on the water, ― he orders the teenager, who, intrigued by what is happening, immediately climbs the stairs. ― Hey! Don't collapse!

― It's all right! - There's a rush of feet from above, a few seconds of silence, and another scream. ― Only cold water works!

― Of course, we are trying to turn on the thing that will warm our water! — George laughs when Tommy re-emerges from the hatch. — But I must admit I'm surprised the pipes aren't frozen. They should have, like,…

― So be glad you're not cold. ― Tommy, going to the strange box with buttons and a screen, where George is standing, taps on it with his fingernails, and the ringing sound seems to resound throughout the house. ― Oh, my!

― Don't do that, ― the dark-haired man rubs his temples, glancing briefly at the box. — I don't know how to handle this thing myself. Suddenly it will explode.

— It can? ― Tommy takes an instinctive step back. Such a stupid death was not part of his plan, let George handle it.

— Why not? This is a gas boiler and it works, however amazing it may be, on gas. And gas has a bad habit of exploding when it wants to, besides, ― the guy stammers for a second. — We're making some very serious mistakes right now, just so you know.

― Like what?

― Well, as I recall, the boiler should be turned on either in the summer or in a warm room, ― George snorts, spreading his hands. — It's not summer outside, in case you haven't noticed.

― And it's not a plus temperature, either, ― Tommy mutters to himself, watching with interest as George turns on some taps. There is a splash of water. — What happens if it explodes?

― Well, we'll die if there's a gas leak somewhere. Either, as you said, we will explode, or we will not live to see that moment at all, suffocating in our sleep. In any case, the choice is not particularly great. But this is still unlikely. If this thing had been broken, it would have exploded many years ago, but if it works, then everything is fine — a green light lights up on the body, and the room is filled with the sound of water filling a vessel. — Well, everything seems to be working. Exhale. We're not dead.

*******

The room is obviously not going to warm up soon, and George is terrified that he will have to sleep in this cold. Well, at least he's not the only one who's going to suffer, there's still Tommy. The dark-haired man quickly throws the purchased provisions into the boxes. They were careful not to take food that needed a refrigerator — never know, what if the electricity wouldn't work, and then what would they do?

Tommy, lying face down on the wooden surface of the table where he sat down to stay awake, already seems to be having some kind of colored dream, but George is in no hurry to wake him up. Want to take a sip of tea, but don't want to boil the kettle for a long time and loudly, and don't want to spoil the silence that has settled over the years of the absence of people in the house. Not now. So the guy just takes a sip from the bottle he bought for the trip, looks out the window. It's getting light. The sun is about to appear over the horizon, thus making it clear that a new day has come. But the dark-haired man a week ago could not even imagine that he would meet Monday morning in this way-standing near the window, realizing with horror what an ass they had driven themselves and Tommy. On the other hand, George wanted to be here, in this very house. And that, that for this he had to survive the shooting, and now he is considered dead. Wasn't it worth it?

*******

**NighTMAre:** reply  
**NighTMAre:** i beg you  
**NighTMAre:** you can't sleep yet  
**NighTMAre:** get your fucking phone in your fucking hands  
**NighTMAre:** yes, I'm an asshole, but stop ignoring me  
**NighTMAre:** you couldn't die

No good. Dream throws the phone aside, and it falls to the floor with a loud thud. Probably crashed, but don't care about that right now. The guy walks from side to side of the house, pacing the living room, clenching his fists. Well, he couldn't die, he just couldn't. But the status persistently, no matter how many times the guy did not re-enter the program, reported that the user was not online for almost a day, and the last time he appeared on the site ten minutes before the festival. This game wasn't worth the candle. It wasn't worth anything. That feeling of emptiness and frustration that Dream felt every fucking time he looked at the screen. Every time typed a new and new message. One by one. Since the trinity's escape from the square. Willbur couldn't have killed them. Couldn't kill HIM. He wouldn't dare. Didn't do it. Those teenagers are his friends. And friends don't kill friends. It's not nice, it's not polite. Dream was sure he wouldn't do it. Was sure, hearing Techno give the order to kill, watching the retreating silhouettes with his eyes. Or rather, one particular silhouette, one particular back, but now... now he was not sure that Willbur's cuckoo had not completely waved her hand, and there were still the rudiments of reason in the boy. Or maybe he was the only one who had killed him. Just George. As unnecessary. Just an ordinary person. Many of them have already died, and one more will die.

Dream feels the bright flashes hitting his head, forcing him to hit the wall with his fists, trying to somehow come to his senses. And again, and again! The guy knows that tomorrow there will be bruises, but doesn't give a fuck. The pain is sobering. And sobriety of mind is now something that is vital for a guy. Without that sobriety, he wouldn't be able to find Willbur, who hadn't returned to their shared, ahem, headquarters tonight. Asshole.

It's already five in the morning, and it's time to go to bed, but instead the guy just picks up the phone from the floor, sending a few more messages. Answer me, damn you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these "fixes" from ao3, with its blank lines, are so annoying..


	18. Chapter 18

The festival was a success. More than enough. The plan was completed by eighty percent. Funny, Dream thought it wouldn't even be fifty percent. But this success was ... useless. Absolutely useless, on the contrary-disgusting. Dream didn't get any satisfaction from him, that's for sure. He has long begun to feel that all this is absolutely useless, that he can only get sincere pleasure by clutching the phone in his hand, greedily reading the next message on the display. With greed? No, not like that. With hunger. That word was more appropriate. The guy walks from side to side in the house. At his home, a rented apartment on the outskirts of the city, which he had to leave due to important business in the city. Too important. So much so that they required a permanent presence at headquarters. Right under the hand of Blade, who decided to play God. Well ... then Dream really did not mind helping these arrogant idiots, in order to amuse his ego and go down in the history of not only the browser, but also a small town with a bad reputation. And now it was all pointless. The house smelled of something, but Dream had no idea what it was, or why it was coming. Did the rat die in the chimney? Although, perhaps, the stench should have been stronger. The little rat died? Dream snorts into his fist, although perhaps there was nothing funny about his situation. The attachment to the kid from the social network has grown too much, taking a terrifying, in the view of the guy, turns. From a peaceful little dog that waved its tail in a friendly way to a stranger, not letting him get close, she turned into a beast. A monster, so to speak, ready to tear apart anyone who comes closer to the interlocutor than a step. Because, what the fuck? And it was this part of him that had turned into a fanged creature, growling, demanding communication, conversation. And, Dream is sure of it, he would easily pull the trigger when someone dared to offend his person. His man? That sounds funny. Funny, for a man who's gone head over heels, of course.

Why isn't he answering? Where the fuck is he?! The last location of the phone shows the area, and where it went then — and the dick knows it. Disappeared. Disappeared from the network, leaving no clues. Seven in the morning, and Dream hadn't gone to bed yet. He tried, but sleep would not come, and he would get out of bed, pace the room again, go to the kitchen to take a sip of water, and come back. And so on in a circle. Again, and again, and again, and again. It's like being trapped in an infinity loop with no way out. He feels weak, but he can't help himself as he hits the wall again. And more. And again! As if this concrete was responsible for all his troubles. The pain spreads pleasantly over the reddened knuckles, and the guy shakes his hand, trying to remove it. I feel better. The real question is how long this temporary satisfaction will last. Or rather…

_Self-deception._

The kitchen was cool and smelled damp, but that was just as well — the warmth might have made him sleepy, and he didn't want to sleep. Didn't want to waste my time. Risk that George will appear in the network and ask for help, but will not receive a response. Dream realizes that he is becoming really obsessed, but he can't help it. And don't want to, this obsession suddenly turns out to be… Pleasant? Yes, nasty, making you feel like a weakling, a stupid child, but ... Dream suddenly realizes with a kind of masochistic satisfaction that, feeling this attachment (and the emptiness due to the lack of an object of attachment), he feels important. He feels alive, even relatively normal. Just a little crazy about one jerk who gets in trouble all the time, but normal. It's okay to take care of someone you care about, right? It's okay to be willing to kill for him, isn't it?

Dream has no idea what it's like to be «normal» and he doesn't really want to know how normal he is. It doesn't matter if you're not seeing a psychiatrist. The electric kettle clicks too loudly, signaling that it has completed its primary task, and Dream, as if not trusting him, puts his hand to the hot glass, but instinctively immediately withdraws it. Really hot. Fingers turn red. Probably, there will be a burn. Burns and bruises on the knuckles. Funny. Looking at such a strange combination, you might think that he had a fight with a fire-breathing dragon. Instant coffee is not as delicious as freshly ground and brewed in an old, battered Turk, but you do not want to stand at the stove, and if he does not watch the boiling drink, it will immediately pour out on the stove, which he will have to clean. So the idea is obviously a failure, even if tempting. Coffee in general is a strange drink, which appeared neither because of the goats, nor because of the sheikh, who decided that coffee berries are an excellent remedy. Perhaps he was even right about something, the drink really helped. Even if not in the area that some mysterious sheikh had hoped for.

On the street, despite the early hour, quite a lot of people. Morning, six or seven o'clock, I think. Thousands of people, waking up, rush to their jobs like bees to a hive, filling the suburbs with conversations and the noise of passing cars. Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance shouts, trying to push through the traffic jam. It's amazing that there were any, it was usually much... quieter. Or were people so excited by yesterday's events? A sip of coffee leaves a rather unpleasant residue, which appears in the Dream only after the instant drink. Psychological, rather than real. He is simply disgusted to drink cheap powdered coffee, realizing that from the real coffee there, perhaps, only the name. In the best case, twenty percent of the real coffee tree seeds, and the rest of the space in the cup was occupied by various trash, which was used for economy and flavor additives. Dream closes his eyes, taking another sip. Perhaps it's not so bad. From the street, someone screams, swears, and Dream again feels himself in the center of L'manburg with endless burning lights, people hurrying about their business, who absolutely do not care about what is happening around them, handymen in bright orange helmets. Maybe he should also get an extra job and get out of the suburbs and into the city itself. IT specialists are required by many companies that are willing to pay generously for the services provided with a «white» salary, and not with bitcoins thrown into an anonymous wallet. Dream feels that he is changing. He understands that the idea of a «white» job, a career ladder, communication with office plankton no longer scares him, does not make him yawn out of boredom. No. Does it even seem ... tempting?

Did he really hope that he could correct his «normality» by simply blocking the contact on the social network? Did you believe that it would pass? Did you believe that the attachment that appeared in such a short time would disappear so quickly-just block the annoying contact? Or did he want to believe it? Why, then, at the risk of his life, he almost ran into bullets, as soon as he noticed the familiar top of his head in the crowd. Noticing? He'd been looking for her, damn it, all the time he'd been in the square. He hoped that he would not notice her, that the guy stayed at home, but, alas, he was wrong. Stupid boy. He almost ran after the crowd, which rushed to the exit, and on which the shooting was scattered from behind the trees. From his, Dream's, people. They were not very good with firearms, but their goal was not to kill all living things, and such fire caused many times more wounds. And George prepared to run there. Idiot! A complete idiot, an idiot! Crazy!

But Dream always knew that he was many times more driven than most people, so the dark-haired man clearly did not manage to surpass him. The dark-haired man was a little naive, somewhat childishly stupid, but clearly not reckless. He thought before he did something, unlike Dream, who had rushed into the thick of things only when he noticed someone important to him in the crowd. And he would probably be willing to risk his life again-just to feel again how fearfully someone else's body pressed against him, shrinking with fear. What are you afraid of? Death? Don't worry, it doesn't make any sense. Do not be afraid of what will happen sooner or later. You're not afraid to fall asleep, are you?

*******

Dream feels like a complete idiot, crossing the border of L'manburg with a purchased pass. Why is he doing this? The snow, which has melted overnight, squelches nastily underfoot, splashing cold water in all directions, so that Dream's trousers, which he has put on to look more or less presentable on the border, get wet quickly enough, and his legs are numb. Tolerable.

The bus is quiet enough, except for the sound of a girl talking to her mother. The rest of the passengers seem too lazy to even talk to each other. A man, leaning back, has a third dream, and Dream never ceases to amaze how such people manage not to oversleep their stop. Do they have a buzzer going off in their head?  
Dawn is breaking, and Dream looks out of the window at the city, sparkling with winter decorations and garlands. A few sleepy schoolboys, yawning and stretching, climb in single file through the snowdrifts. No, no, and there will be a flash of snow thrown by one mischievous person at another, turning the walk to school into an ice battle. People passing by the children just shake their heads, muttering something under their breath. Well, they're too important for fun. One of the snowballs hits the top of the head of a man who a second ago seemed to be scolding the boys, and the children, laughing, begin to run away. What happened next remains a mystery, and the bus quickly leaves the scene, not wanting to witness such blasphemy. There are fewer and fewer people at each stop, and the guy exhales, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. Can also take a nap — it will not be superfluous. There's still a long way to go before the final one. In any case, it will be problematic to sleep through the stop in his case.

The stuffy cabin is empty and dirty — all the people are out, and Dream feels like some kind of… Wrong. He sees the driver looking at him suspiciously through the mirror several times. Are the morning trips to the final destination in this bus so visible, or is the poor peasant behind the wheel strained by bruises under his eyes, and shaking, which should not be an ordinary person — the bus is hot, chills are out of the question, but the guy still shakes. He can feel the driver's contempt directed at him. Did he think i was a drug addict? Suppose he has given them more than one ride to the final one, to the yards where they settled? Where they have the right to attack anyone they don't like or have any interest in. A nasty driver who judges a book by its cover. Without even realizing that the pages are smeared with blood. The "right" person, damn it. Acceptable-normal, useful for society.

You can break the system, but not the people that live in this system. They, the hostages of the system, will live forever, passing on bits of themselves to subsequent generations, until their blood finally mixes with dozens of their ancestors, washing out of the body. Or until they die of a heart attack or a bullet in the stomach. This is also, perhaps, as an option.

*******

He knows the way. He remembers, even though he's only been here twice. The snow is still squelching under his feet, but he can no longer hear it, speeding up without noticing it. After the store, turn around. The guard who has come out to smoke on the porch looks at him suspiciously, but Dream doesn't care. He is too close to a familiar home, and therefore emotions take over the mind. Lost-boy should still be home, he doesn't go to work for another hour. They have time to talk. In the conversation, which had required both of them. Dream doesn't want to run away anymore, and he didn't want to before. Simply… He just wanted to convince himself that it didn't matter. That he could leave if he wanted to. I don't care what he didn't want. Along the way, he writes a few more messages that remain unread. As were all the messages sent to George after what had happened in the square.

He knocks on the door, George should still be home, at this time he is just starting to get ready for work. The street is still dark, some houses light up, and the windows of the interlocutor's house still continue to be black squares without a hint of a person inside. Dream knocks again. He bangs on the door with his fists, looking around. Why doesn't it open? Willbur couldn't hurt him, just couldn't. Wouldn't dare kill someone in front of the teenagers cared so much about. He's so fucking right. Dream spits irritably on the ground, taking a short break and taking a step back from the ill-fated door. Stepping back, only to rush forward the next second, kicking hard, trying to knock the blunt piece of wood to hell. There is absolutely no reaction in the house, as if the owner is indifferent to the fact that someone is trying to break in. Or because he's not home. Dream feels his mouth open, but he can't hear the words he's saying, and he shouts at the door. To no avail. Despite the fact that a piece of wood does not look so strong, knocking it out with your foot, as in some action movie, is problematic.

There is a clink of glass. The guy reached the window.

*******

George's house is dark and quiet. Absolute silence covers my head, making me wince. Why isn't he here? Where is he?! Cold. It's bloody freezing. The guy constantly complained about the permafrost, but Dream could not even imagine that… That much. How did he even live here?

\- Are you there? - it sounds kind of hopeless, even weak. Stupid question. Idiotic. But the Dream still passes through the rooms, looking around. The computer is turned off next to the curtained window, the bed, on which lies the same blanket from the avatar of the guy, the pattern on which Dream hypnotized, once again hovering in the photo. It looks like a burrow. Or rather, it was. At least on those days when the other person did not have to go anywhere on the weekend, and he spent the whole weekend at home, getting out of bed only for food and toilet. Doesn't sound too bad, though, huh? Only now the animal that had chosen this burrow had disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing but a sense of emptiness and the beast, which, whining and scratching, demanded to return him to his man. It was like he was in mourning, and it was scary. George couldn't just die. Definitely couldn't.

Is it even colder in the living room than in the bedroom, or is it because of the recently broken window? Dream doesn't know. He walks across the room, his fingertips lightly touching the old wallpaper. And his apartment in the suburbs seems not so bad, downright luxury. This guy who works twelve hours a day just doesn't deserve to live in a place like this. He wouldn't mind moving somewhere closer to the center, would he?

«But... ― the guy bites his lip. — We need to find him first.»

And, as if on cue, the beast inside suddenly grins, growling. Dream doesn't understand what's going on, looking around. Trying again and again to figure out what had caught his attention. Which seems wrong and unnatural. What was superfluous in the room?

There's a guitar in the corner of the room. Bright, sparkling. It can be seen that the instrument is taken care of, treated like a king. And it is clearly superfluous. Clearly wrong in this abode of dust and chaos. George wouldn't care for the guitar, he couldn't get attached to the tool so much, he didn't have enough time. He somehow managed to eat when he came home from work, what kind of care for the guitar are we talking about?

George wouldn't have to care for his guitar so hard, but dream knows someone who is prepared for it. He feels a drop of sweat trickle down his temple, clattering to the floor. Son of a bitch…

*******

George's monitor is impossibly dim, and for some reason he can't turn up the brightness, so he has to squint at the letters on the screen.He will definitely spoil his eyesight with such actions and glasses are not cheap, you need to be careful. But not before that. The browser loads ridiculously slowly, the Internet is so weak that Dream is surprised how the guy even managed to pump up so many games that flaunted on the desktop with some uncomplicated wallpaper with nature. Did he leave the computer on at night, only to spend an hour or two on another game the next day, which he would eventually abandon? Prick…

There are only two contacts in the dialogs. Dream freezes when he sees thirty-odd messages from a contact who is signed as « **NighTMAre** ». He does not open a chat with himself, does not want to feel his weakness again, his stupid attachment. And the second contact has no more than twenty or thirty messages in total. From the avatar, a disheveled teenager smiles, and the nickname suddenly reminds me of a dialogue that happened, it seems, a week ago. Stupid, childishly inappropriate, and vulgar — only a child could choose such a nickname. The guy quickly looks through the messages exchanged between George and the teenager from the social network. Nothing interesting, and no interference from Willbur could be seen in these messages, but he had clearly been in this house, and there was no other explanation for this strange guitar. The page of a teenager does not represent anything interesting. A few quotes, music, reflections on important things, in the opinion of the page owner.

And a photo. A photo that Dream has never seen, but instantly understands when it was taken. George is sitting at a table in the corner, wrapped in a pink sweater and seemingly choking on the drink he's drinking. Next to him is Willbur, who is staring indifferently at the phone screen, grinning at some thoughts of his own, crossing his legs.

_What the fuck…_

_What the fuck?_

_WHAT THE FUCK?!_


	19. Chapter 19

― Willbur will come to us — not a question but a statement of fact. George, calmly sipping from a large mug of tea made from some dried herbs found on a shelf in the basement (the guy sincerely hopes that he did not make a drink from dill, something poisonous or illegal), immediately chokes on it. It becomes a habit to choke on the appearance of a teenager, when you just peacefully try to drink tea. Tommy, who has been watching this scene, grunts into his fist as he watches George, for lack of a rag nearby, wipe the table with the sleeve of his jacket. Having completed this impossible task, having soiled his jacket, dressed because of the cold (one boiler could not completely warm up a large enough house in just a few days), he returns all his attention to the teenager, who immediately stops smiling. And George isn't laughing, either. Fear is overwhelming.

— What do you mean? ― his voice is hoarse, and he has to cough into his fist to get it back to normal. — He doesn't know the address, he can't…

― I told him, ― Tommy interrupts, and the dark-haired man's heart somehow moves from his chest to his heels, stopping there. George feels like a complete idiot, opening and closing his mouth, unable to say anything. He was trying to protect the blond guy, and he just turned them in! Handed them over to a man who killed dozens of civilians, and what the fuck are they supposed to do now?!

― Did you? You just gave our address to the person responsible for the fucking terrorist attack?! ― George rarely uses obscene language, but the situation allows. He doesn't whisper, he hisses like an angry snake. So he was hiding this idiot, and Tommy just blurted out their address? — Didn't you understand what he said then? He was assigned to kill you, you're one of the witnesses, and Tubbo is a supporter, in their opinion, of Schlatt! Do you really think you're going to live?

— He won't kill me! I'm sure of it!

— Just like he's on «our» side? That he wants peace in this city? Or have you finally taken off your rose-colored glasses? He was just taking advantage of you, but how can you not understand that?! ― George almost screams, feeling like a cat rearing up on its hind legs. — He was on the stage. Back when we were running away. He is one of the participants in the crime, defending him you ... you just spit on the lives of all those who died there in the square!

«You do the same thing as an adult, but you demand that a teenager not make this mistake? You're ridiculous.»

He's not the same. He's not the same. He's not the same.

So what if, for the past three days out of town, he'd woken up out of habit and tried to find his phone on the floor next to his bed. And what with the fact that during the three days of isolation, he repeatedly hung out, thinking. Thinking of someone I've only seen live three times. So why the fuck is he so attached to this strange guy. Why, despite all the arguments that he should put it out of his mind, George continued to think and think about what had happened as he swallowed the boiling water. About what is happening throughout their communication. About their strange friendship, their strange need for companionship. The guy buries his hand in his hair, closing his eyes wearily. Why the fuck is it so hard?

— I believe him. If he wanted to kill me, he would have shot me back then, wouldn't he? Why don't we just, I don't know, give him a chance?

― A chance? ― George opens his eyes, staring at Tommy in a way that makes him take a step back. The dark-haired man does not speak, he whispers, almost pronouncing syllables word by word. ― He killed people, Tommy. People died because of him and his accomplices. They almost killed Tubbo and you just… Are you asking me to give them a chance?

― You, ― Tommy shakes, and George can see that his words have really angered the teenager, but he's just tired of trying to find a compromise. In this situation, he simply does not want to die. And Tommy's death would, admittedly, upset him. — You don't understand shit! You just keep reminding me of him over and over, trying to, I don't know, control me? Yes, I'm worried about Tubbo, but that doesn't mean I want to be locked up in this fucking house with nothing but a cell phone to communicate with the outside world. Even my parents probably think I'm dead! What the hell kind of security are we talking about? Willbur is our only connection to the outside world right now, and without him, we'll just sit here like cavemen, not knowing what's going on outside. Do you like this life, do you have no one to take care of? Please! Sit here and sip your fucking tea, but personally, I'm tired of feeling like a criminal who's hiding from justice!

George winces. Tommy's speech is too much for ears, my head is ringing. The teenager is on edge, trying to catch his breath after the monologue, resting his hands on the table.

«You have no one to take care of?»  
George doesn't know what to say, so he just gets up from the table, leaving the half-finished tea to cool in the mug. Entering his room, he pauses for a second, turning around and looking at the teenager who was taken aback by this reaction. There is no strength to prove anything, and it is useless — Tommy will still do it in his own way. And, frankly, what could he do now that Willbur already knew their address? Barricade yourself in, run away from home?

The room he's living in is cool. His parents used to sleep in it when they came to the house for the weekend. Previously, he was forbidden to touch anything there, because he could simply break some fucking unnecessary porcelain set that was on the shelf and got from some great-great-great-grandmother. The guy sits down on the bed, grabbing the sheet with his hands, closing his eyes. The head does not stop hurting, either from the vile weather outside the window, or from an unpleasant conversation, the pressure began to rise in the brunette. And it wasn't the end of the day yet, and he would have to face the man who had dragged him and Tommy and Tubbo into this mess. And this is disgusting.

«What's the difference between Nightmare and Willbur?»

The voice in his head clarifies sarcastically, and George winces, telling Tom to get the hell out of here. It's not like that, in his case it's different. Nightmare isn't Willbur, and that's the whole point. Nightmare is different, no matter what. The guy is shaking from his own weakness, from his own desire to justify the interlocutor at all costs, and this behavior is fundamentally different from the behavior of the person he was just a month ago. A month, huh? It seems to George that much more than a month has passed since they met (yeah, two. From December 6 to February 6). A year, maybe several years, but not a month.

«So you will continue to justify him, turn a blind eye to all his overtures? Are you really not afraid that one day he will find you? Can you be sure that the meeting with him will not end badly for you?»

The guy whines, clenching his teeth in frustration, clutching at his hair. He feels like he's gone, but he can't do anything with himself — it's insanely difficult to keep his emotions in for several days. George continued to load himself with work. Over and over again. Over and over again. If only I didn't think about him, if only I didn't see the corpses at my feet again. If only not to feel someone else's body next to him, which, pressing him to the ground, continues to hold-if only the brunette did not get under another bullet burst. The bruises on his hands are almost completely gone, and George doesn't know how to react. On the one hand, along with the bruises, the memories gradually disappeared, as if the mind was trying to quickly get rid of the traumatic fragments of memory, but on the other… On the other hand, along with the bruises, Nightmere was gradually fading away. It evaporated, became a memory. Becoming the "weird guy I used to hang out with", rather than a conversationalist with whom to discuss the nasty weather, to whom to write, expecting support and ... human attitude? More than one Nightmer was satisfied to receive a long-awaited response — George felt much the same way when he received another notification of a new message. He wasn't alone. He felt like he had a friend. The real one, who didn't care who George was in real life, who supported and helped every time. Who fucking saved him three times. Three times, damn it! Every time George was in mortal danger, he was there, pulling him out of another mess by the hand, hiding him behind his back, risking his own life. And that's why George couldn't just call the guy "an acquaintance," he was a friend. He was more than just a friend. George had never felt so calm before just because he was talking to a person. He felt safe even when the other person was miles away. The guy had no idea what it was called, so he just sat there, replaying the memories in his head like a jammed record.

_We should discuss enough things, don't you think?_

Nightmare was right. Damn right. They should discuss an insane number of things, inaccuracies, pitfalls that would help George UNDERSTAND the interlocutor. And it was necessary. The two of them. But, as a result, this did not happen, George cowardly ran away from the city, just to save his and Tommy's lives. He ran away, cutting off all the wires, depriving himself, first of all, of an important interlocutor. He felt somewhat like a drug addict who was going through withdrawal. One of two things — he would either lose his temper and take the phone away from Tommy, log in to his account, informing Nightmare of his whereabouts, or he would barely survive this period of life, getting rid of the addiction that was eating him up from the inside, delivering a burning pain. Not physical, but moral. And this choice was disgusting. Common sense screamed about the correctness of the second option, but ... shit. Why is everything so complicated?!

Why? Why couldn't he just end the conversation when he told Nightmare that he was the wrong recipient, why couldn't he keep quiet, without getting involved in endless dialogues with a guy he didn't know at the time. And now he's sitting on the bed, eyes closed, unable to do anything about his attachment to a stranger. He can feel the moisture on his face, and he can't tell if it's cold sweat or tears from emotions that have taken over his entire being. What a weakling he is. Useless, incapable of anything. A cell of society, which, if anything, will quickly be replaced by another, exactly the same. Why did Nightmare keep talking to him at all, out of pity?

«Why is his opinion so important to you?»

George doesn't know the answer to this question, burying his face in his hands, biting his lips. He doesn't know, and that makes it even nastier. Who is the Nightmare for him, why some idiot from the Internet suddenly became so valuable to him, so important. It was as if he wasn't a faceless user hidden behind a smiling emoticon, but someone important. Someone who was really right George?

«Do you really not understand what is happening to you, or do you persist in trying to ignore it?»

― I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, ― the guy repeats it like a mantra, swaying from side to side, feeling like he's gone. The collar of his T-shirt is wet with tears, which run down his face in nasty salty trickles. Body is shaking for some reason, I feel sick, and my hands are shaking. The guy begins to have a tantrum, which he tried to restrain with all his might. It didn't work.

*******

― It's been a long time, ― Willbur says, not looking much better than George, which is alarming. They stand in the middle of the living room, looking into each other's eyes, and each doesn't know what to say. What would be worth saying in a situation like this? George did not skip school, how did he manage to miss such an important and useful lesson for life? Willbur has huge bruises under his eyes, and his fingers are shaking, but he quickly puts his hands in his pockets, noticing the excessive attention to them, smiling wryly in response to a puzzled look and shaking his head, saying "don't pay attention". Tommy says something in the background, and George's head is stuffed with cotton wool, which muffles all the sounds surrounding him. He clenches his fists painfully, digging his nails into the palm of his hand, and Willbur seems to take this as a threat. George sees the guy slowly, trying not to attract the attention of Tommy, who doesn't understand what the hell is going on, leading his hand behind his belt, ready, if anything, to pull out a gun and shoot him, George, in the head. Just like that, without hesitation or any background. Only because the guy feels a fierce dislike for him, which has settled in the house like a fog, shouting from every corner to an unwanted guest that he is not welcome here.

The guy exhales, barely unclenching his fists and turning around. You can't let him kill you. Willbur not adequate, on edge. He is now ready to kill anyone who casts a sidelong glance in his direction, fearing treachery or giving their data to the police. And there's no point in getting into trouble, unless George wants to wake up in the trunk one day. Usually people do not burn with such desires.

― Do you want some tea? ― it sounds kind of mocking, but the guy can't help the sarcasm in his voice. It just can't.

— Won't there be anything stronger? We have, like, a serious conversation planned — we will not get drunk with tea…

George, to tell you the truth, wants to drink himself into a stupor, but that's hardly the answer to his problems, and Willbur is afraid to pour alcohol, so he shakes his head. Let him be content with tea, even if he is sober, he is inadequate.


	20. Chapter 20

— Are you going to keep quiet? ― George turns away from Tommy and Willbur, clenching his fists in impotent anger. Yes, not even anger, it would be more correct to call it the most real hatred that the guy tried to contain. If he didn't hold back, he'd get shot in the head. It's terribly simple, huh? Shit like that! ― Or are you just here for a cup of tea? I don't believe it.

— Aren't you tired of grumbling like an old grandfather? ― Willbur nervously beats a strange rhythm with his foot, and the sound of the sole meeting the wooden surface of the floor resounds loudly throughout what seems to be the house. The naked eye can see that the guy is not himself: bruises under the eyes, sudden movements, trembling all over the body. George even wonders for a second if he has started using something illegal, but it seems that such defects were caused by loose nerves, stress and obvious lack of sleep, the level of which could be perfectly estimated by the bags formed under the eyes. The guy generally looks like a pale copy of his past self — it's hard to believe that it's only been a few days since their last meeting. Nor was he, perhaps, the Willbur that George was used to seeing in the company of a teenager. But then, unfortunately, he didn't understand it. And now it was too late to do anything — everything was already done, and changing the past without at least Delorean was problematic. The reset buttons, alas, have not yet been invented for the real world. — You sound like you hate me from the hallway. Can you stop it?

— Should I explain why I feel this way about you, or do you have enough of your own gray mass in your head? - George tries to hide the venom in his voice, honestly. It doesn't work, really, from the word at all, but at least he tries, and it costs a lot, doesn't it? In his situation... Willbur exhales and rubs the bridge of his nose, tired of the constant vitriol directed at him from the guy.

Tommy, sitting in the very corner of the room, glares at the guest who wrote to him only a few hours ago, arranging to meet him soon. The teenager tries not to show the joy that engulfs his whole being when he sees, after all, a close enough friend, which George was not for him. And it probably won't. Willbur buries a hand in his hair, ruffling it with a familiar gesture, and it feels so normal, so warm for a second. Familiar. Tommy forgets where he is. He forgets that his entire existence is about to end if Willbur suddenly takes it into his head to finish what he was ordered to do. Tommy had never wanted a brother as a child, content to be an only child, and listening to the stories of his friends complaining about their older brothers driving them away from the computer. Who knew that at the age of sixteen, he would have someone who could replace a nonexistent relative? Who knew that this man could betray him so easily, using the information Tubbo shared with Tommy and Willbur? And yet…

— Why did you come here? Turn us in to that man on the stage? George doesn't quite know who Tommy is talking about, and glances sideways at Wilbur, noting with interest how he cringes at such a simple question. Is he.. afraid?

\- No, it's nothing to do with him. I'm here… I came... — the guy can't say anything, and only swallows, starting to rub the reddened bridge of his nose more intensively, clenching his teeth. You can hear them creaking in the distance. It's scary. Scares the hell out of me. This Willbur does not inspire any confidence (which, in general, George did not have initially, but still), on the contrary-he seems to have gone on his head, twitching and squinting now towards the door, now towards the window, as if considering an escape plan if something goes wrong as he planned. George swallows and slowly backs away to the cutlery drawer. When next to you is a man who has gone on his head-a knife at hand will not be superfluous, you never know what will come to mind.

\- Well? - Tommy watches his former friend closely, his whole body shrinking. The teenager's tense posture clearly shows that he is not as indifferent to everything that has happened as George thought. He was clearly as worried as the owner of the house before telling the location of the person responsible for the fucking terrorist attack. However, the inner "I" overcame, and he still told this, like, a secret. An idiot? Perhaps…

― I had to make sure you were alive, ― Tommy raises his eyebrows at this statement, his whole being showing that he doesn't trust a word of it. - Don't look at me like I'm shit. I'm serious.

― Oh, yes, I have to believe every word you say. Especially after everything that's happened, huh? - Tommy reminds George of a tense spring that is about to be released and is likely to hit someone in the eye. The guy, just in case, goes to the door to the room in which he has settled. If this couple will begin to throw objects dining (or furniture) is a knife it is unlikely to save you, and here's a quick run oh how can help. ― You fucking traitor! I don't even know why I let you come here in the first place. You wanted to make sure I was still alive? And the fact that I might have died in the square didn't bother you? Or did I only become so important to you after I survived? You want to finish what you started, or what? I don't fully understand it, so tell me, motherfucker! Stop acting like a fucking victim!

George is surprised to hear this fiery speech from a teenager who just a few hours ago claimed to believe the man in whose face he is now hissing obscenities. He was talking about the chance they should give the guy, and now it's just… Did he lie? Is he sure that Will won't shoot him if he goes too far, if he says too much? It gets really scary. They're in the shit. Maybe George and Tommy should get the fuck out of here now, if they're out in the hallway for some far-fetched reason. But where, and will it save you from such persecution? George has no idea how to hide from surveillance, or what methods Willbur might even use to find them. Will the discarded phones help them? «At least». - George says with a sad smile. ― «I don't need to worry about this point. I have already completed it.»

— I didn't know it would be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this! It shouldn't! Not so! It wasn't all fucking according to plan. - Willbur suddenly clutches at his hair, eyes wide with horror, and George wonders once again: «Is the guy sane, or has the festival completely destroyed his psyche?» ― They tricked me. Cheated. This should not have happened, only Schlatt and his guards should have died, there should have been no shooting at the crowd! I just didn't think they could…

― They? Who the fuck are they, anyway?! And what do they have to do with it, if you originally planned to kill people? Yes, it sucks, but murder is murder, and you don't even try to justify yourself. Is this, in your opinion, a peaceful solution to the conflict? ― Tommy starts to say something else, but his voice breaks with a treacherous tremor, and the teenager only weakly shakes his head, moving to the side to pour some water into a glass and wet his sore throat.

— I just… Just... fuck! ― Will curses suddenly, clenching his fists at the impotence that has washed over him at the teenager's words. It makes you feel bad about yourself, it makes you feel sick. And all because a child yelled at him. He told me what he really thought of him, called him a traitor. And it stung painfully somewhere inside, making him wince. It's unpleasant to admit your mistakes. Very unpleasant. Down to the white knuckles, the bitten lip, and the shiver that went through her body. It's disgusting. ― I'm sorry.

— Why? ― Tommy's voice is low and perhaps weak. As if the strength to scream after a sip of water was gone, washed out. — What good will it do me to forgive you? What will it give you? What do you need me for this time? Who am I supposed to help you kill while you smile sweetly and tell me lies? Why should I ever forgive you? You're a killer. Innocent people have died because of you. Hell, some guy with a bullet in his skull fell in front of me. If he hadn't been standing there, the bullet would have hit me, you know? I could be dead by now, and Tubbo ... Tubbo…

Tommy falls silent again, and George is really uncomfortable with the picture that has unfolded in his kitchen. He's not just uncomfortable — he's in pain. It is painful to look at the broken teenager who tried to protect his former friend with all his might just recently, and now almost cries, standing in front of him, while all the bright images that he once built are inexorably crumbling in his head. It hurts to realize that it was all a hoax. A fake. A haze before his eyes that made it impossible to see the real thing, a nasty lump in the depths of Willbur's soul, which moved its tentacles, wrapping itself more and more tightly around the guy, forcing paranoid ideas and images on him, at the same time draining all the vital juices from his weakened body.

― Tubbo's alive. I can't say he's okay, but he's alive, ― Willbur says, looking down at the floor like a kid who's trying to justify a B to his parents. ― He's on a ventilator right now, but I think the doctor says he'll be fine soon. He's alive, and that's the main thing.

― He may die, ― Tommy begins to shake-either from the anger that consumes his whole being, or from the tears that come inexorably to his eyes because of the fear of losing his best friend. — He might die because of you, you piece of dog shit, and all you're saying is, he's alive, and that's the main thing? Are you fucking kidding me, or what?

― He won't die! ― Willbur grabs the teenager by the shoulders and shakes him hard. He tries to pull away, but the guy's grip is tight, and he just twitches like a rag doll, trying to free himself from the strings of an experienced puppeteer. ― Listen to me carefully. He was redirected to a paid clinic under a false name. He is followed by experienced doctors. He's on the mend. Just hear me now, okay? He's gonna be fine, okay? Repeat after me!

— Let me go, you crazy-ass!

― Say it again, ― Willbur growls, shaking the teenager again. George doesn't interfere. Why? Yes, because he sees that this simple phrase is not necessary for Willbur to calm Tommy. It is necessary for Willbur to believe in it himself. He believed that everything would be fine with his friend, that he would be on the mend. This had to bring him to his senses, or he would have gone completely off the rails, which could lead to truly horrific consequences for both the guy and Tommy and George in particular.

― He won't die! He won't die! Just let me go! - Tommy jerks violently, struggling out of someone else's hands, and George notices how, after pausing for a second, Tommy mouths the phrase again, as if hoping that this way it will actually be true. - Have you said everything? Are you sure I'm alive? Perfectly! Now get the fuck out of here.

― What? ― Wilbur asks, momentarily distracted from reality.

― Are you deaf? Get the hell out of this house, - the teenager hisses through his teeth, clenching his fists until his knuckles are white. His fingernails dig into his palm, and Tommy feels like he's scratched it. At least something's running through it, and Tommy can't tell if it's blood or sweat, and he doesn't want to check. But not before.

― Wait, ― George says suddenly, coming a little closer. — I have a few questions that no one else can answer. It is important.

Willbur nods, turning his full attention to George, who is shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other, unsure of how best to ask the question that has been gnawing at him ever since he grabbed Tubbo and Tommy and ran out of the square.

— There was a guy wearing gloves and a mask on the stage. I guess he saved us from the bullets back then, and you seem to know him, so… Who is this guy? - George is surprised to see Will freeze when he hears the question, and for a split second there's a flash of real fear in his eyes. But no, fear is too soft. Horror. The real horror, which is almost immediately hidden behind a mask of assumed indifference, but George still sees how Willbur's fingers tremble as he puts them in his pockets.

— You mean the guy in green? ― George nods, frozen. It wasn't yellow, it turns out, but green. Green, like the smiley face on the fucking avatar. — How do you know him?

— Well, he helped out there at the festival, so I'd like to know who he is." Perhaps to thank him for saving our pitiful souls, ― George sees the disbelief in Willbur's eyes, and sighs and adds a little more information. — Besides, I think I talked to him once on the Internet. I'd like to know more about this man, you know.

― I see, - says Willbur, and rubs the bridge of his nose as if to gather his strength. Or thinking about what to say. This is also an option. ― I have no idea who it is, to be honest. He just offered to help us one day, threatening to leak our data to the network. I don't know what his benefit is from participating in such a thing, but…

― Offered us? ― Tommy asks in surprise, but George, excited by the possible long-awaited clue to the other person's identity, interrupts him.

— What do you know about him? I didn't see him shoot then, in the square, then what was he there for? Who is he? What's his name? I just have to fucking find out!

— I told you, I don't know anything about him! - Willbur shouts, because it's impossible to stop the flow of words coming out of George's mouth. — I know that he likes to hack into other people's correspondence and climb where it is not necessary. I don't know my name either, I used a pseudonym.

― Like what? ― George feels a spark of curiosity that is growing stronger and stronger in him, turning into a real fire. His whole body froze, waiting for an answer. Willbur's second of thought feels like an hour.  
― Dream. He asked me to call him Dream. Stupid nickname, huh?

George exhales with his whole body, which feels like a heavy weight has been lifted. And laughs. Stupid, inappropriate, and, perhaps, insane. Is Willbur's abnormality contagious? Shit.

*******

George hasn't been able to sleep for an hour. He tosses and turns, constantly opening his eyes, unable to concentrate on plunging into the evil-fucking realm of Morpheus, burn him, scum, in hell. The conversation with Willbur, which had been replayed in the boy's mind a hundred times before, had not affected George in the way he had hoped. The guy thought that he would be disappointed in the interlocutor, learning about him a little more than he should, but the guest did not say anything that could be used as a reason for hatred towards Nightmere. Or is it better to call it a Dream? Fuck knows.

George weakly hits the pillow. He doesn't know how to react to Willbur's visit to his house, to his words. On the interlocutor, the mystery of whose identity has already lit up on the horizon. My stomach sank, and everything, like, should not have happened this way, but even common sense, constantly shouting about the danger of the interlocutor, suddenly shut up, without giving any signs of life. He just said something about how someone should meet with Nightmare and have a proper conversation, instead of acting like a hesitant seventh-grader who's afraid to ask a classmate something. He's an adult, after all, a man. And George agrees. But it's still scary.

A knock on the door makes the guy jump in surprise, but almost immediately Tommy's voice is heard, which also instantly calms the tense body.

― Are you asleep?

— No, come in, ― George looks with interest at the teenager, who hesitantly hovers on the threshold, while the smartphone screen is lit up with a bright light in his hands. - Why aren't you sleeping?

— I was about to go to bed, but then I got a message from Willbur, and he asked me to give you the phone, so ... ― the teenager hesitantly hands George a mobile phone with an open dialogue, which proudly flaunts the nickname « **Wilbur** ». Not too original, huh? But the originality of someone else's name now worries the guy a little, he reads the recent messages received from this contact.

**Wilbur:** are you asleep?  
 **Pimpinnit:** What the fuck? I told you to leave us alone.  
 **Pimpinnit:** What do you need?  
 **Wilbur:** hey, how rude: (  
 **Wilbur:** i need to talk to George, can you give him the phone number?  
 **Pimpinnit:** Why would you do that?  
 **Wilbur:** just give him the phone, baby  
 **Pimpinnit:** Why?  
 **Wilbur:** give. it. to. him.  
 **Pimpinnit:** Oh, fuck you. Now, wait a second

George has no idea why Willbur would suddenly want to talk to him at one in the morning, but something about such seemingly simple messages is bothering him. The guy freezes, trying to figure out what caught his attention, but the thought sneers through his mind, and George doesn't have time to grab it.

**Pimpinnit:** ?  
 **Pimpinnit:** What is it?  
 **Wilbur:** found)  
 **Pimpinnit:** What are you talking about?

George looks at the screen in surprise, not fully understanding what is being said, and the other person is already writing a new message.

**Wilbur:** lost-boy is found, it's funny)

It takes George an unbearably long time to understand what the other person is talking about. Three seconds. Three seconds, and then his heart skips a beat. Only one person could call him waii. Just fucking one. All the air was gone from his lungs, but he didn't need it — the guy just stopped breathing as soon as he realized the meaning of what he had written. He had not yet regained consciousness, and the other person was already typing a new message.

**Wilbur:** look, we should discuss a lot of things, don't you think?  
 **Wilbur:** would you mind too much if I dropped by unexpectedly?  
 **Wilbur:** i promise, if you don't want to see me, I'll leave right away. Just let me come in for a minute, okay?  
 **Wilbur:** do you mind?

George's fingers are trembling treacherously, and therefore it is a huge effort for him to write such a simple task as writing just one word. But he gets over it by noticing how his message is instantly read.

**Pimpinnit:** Okay.

George is tormented by the question of how Nightmere got access to Willbur's account, but the contact has already disappeared from the network. Well, maybe it's for the best? The guy should think about the current situation, without being distracted by correspondence. Even if wanted to…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they'll meet soon.))  
> and I'm cold. Very cold.  
> help me, please...


	21. Chapter 21

It was too easy. So much so that Dream even for a second doubted-well, Will can't really be such an idiot! This is simply impossible, incomprehensible to the mind. Only a complete idiot who doesn't know a thing about how to protect himself from surveillance will carry a fake phone next to the real one. And yet…

It turned out that all Dream had to do was look at what kind of phones were in the vicinity of the main one, which Willbur later turned off, but it was too late. God, how the three of them were not caught at the moment of preparation for the festival, the complete imbeciles worked with him. And if there was a little gray mass in the Techno head, then Willbur was always some kind of mentally retarded, not thinking with his head, but relying only on his dreams and plans. He did not even try to predict the consequences of his actions, referring to the futility of such thoughts, and this led Dream to believe that the guy was dropped as a child. Several times. From the third or even the fourth floor. With a flourish. 

However, in the head of the guy began to creep unpleasant thoughts that his head meeting with concrete in infancy did not pass. How else can you explain the fact that he, like a maniac gone mad, spent several hours scouring the Internet, absorbing all possible information about the interlocutor that he could only find or, at the very least, buy. The sensations were strange, unusual. This attachment was clearly not something normal, it rather fluctuated on the level of madness, but it did not frighten Dream. At the moment, all he was afraid of was the oppressive uncertainty about his man's location. And it was much worse than some kind of madness. Baby talk, damn it.

In the network, the guy never appeared, unlike one contact, who no, no, and flashed a green light and the inscription «online» in front of his stupidest nickname, which Dream saw in this crappy social network. But he had been in contact with various representatives of the local fauna, he definitely knew what he was talking about. This means that at least one of George's friends had access to the mobile version of the app and, of course, the phone itself is available. The problem was that even after trying to track the location of this contact, the guy was faced with a certain difficulty, namely, an almost complete lack of communication in the place where the contact was located, which was so necessary to track. The program, assembled literally «on the knee», simply showed a village with one communication tower, waved a pen and wished good luck in finding what you want, proudly leaving the screen. In total, he received about two hundred houses, which, perhaps, could be a teenager. And that wasn't the worst part of the situation, perhaps. The worst part was that even if he knew the address exactly to the house, he couldn't be sure that his lost-boy was there, that he had left with the teenager. Uncertainty and uncertainty, like an evil virus that settled in his chest, ate the guy from the inside, forcing him to go online every half hour only to press the «F5» button again. But nothing changed. Every time.

And then he switched to Willbur, noting with satisfaction that the location of his fake phone was exactly the same as that of the teenager. Not for long, no more than an hour, probably. But it matched. And Dream was surprised to find himself shaking with uncontrollable rage at the thought of Willbur. Why in his case was it something strange, out of the ordinary? Yes, everything is as simple as it could be, and that makes it disgusting. The only thing that shook him was the fact that this asshole had seen George, talked to him once, maybe even had a drink. Yes, definitely definitely drank. It can't be a coincidence that they both suffered from hangovers on the same day. He didn't deserve it, he didn't have the right to do it. Why the fuck could he touch the guy if he wanted to, and Dream could only spin around in his chair, clutching his head, staring at the screen with undisguised anger. Oh, no, he wouldn't dare. I wouldn't dare touch a guy with one fucking finger. I wouldn't have dared if I didn't want to lose it. But the fact remained. A photo found on the page of a user with the nickname «Pimpinnit» clearly showed that Willbur, at least, was personally acquainted with George. And it was very annoying. It was hard to believe that this acquaintance was, so to speak, out of the kindness of the heart. Oh, no, Will wasn't the kind of person who would play friendship games with people he didn't need for something. Lately, Dream had seen nothing but anger and cold calculation in his friend's eyes. And why would he even give up on George? And where the fuck is he?!

The chair from which the guy abruptly rose falls to the floor, thereby expressing a protest to such a disdainful treatment of himself, but Dream, frankly, does not care about the dissatisfaction of inanimate objects. Yes, and, of course, animated ones, too. But George is not an object, not a toy, which is not a pity, in case of something, to throw out on the landfill as unnecessary. And the guy, unfortunately, was convinced of this already when he felt real fear, not finding him in the house. Fear, which turns into a real panic, and then-into rage. And this rage was not going to disappear, burning in the chest like a forest fire, bursting out, wanting to devour everything in its path, leaving only charred branches and the carcasses of forest animals that did not have time to hide underground. It didn't frighten the guy, though it should have, it was mesmerizing. The urge to let out the chaos that was eating him from the inside out was growing by the second, and Dream, to be honest, didn't mind letting off steam at all right now. This evening promised to be very interesting. The knuckles crackle especially loudly, as if in anticipation.

*******

It was easy. Too easy. The guy was finally convinced that Willbur was a complete fool, who had no idea how everything in this world worked, hoping only that a spare phone could, if anything, save him from danger. Punishments for running away, for cowardice before the plan. The only fucking possibility is that he knows at least an approximate location where Waii might be. He clearly didn't think that finding his address would be so easy that he wouldn't even have to spend money on additional databases — everything was literally in the palm of his hand.

Nor did Willbur know that now, walking down a dark street, he was insanely vulnerable. He didn't know that Dream had been watching him continuously since Willbur had first left the house. It would seem that you can not notice the surveillance on an empty street, but in fact, in order to pursue someone for a long time, you just need to keep your distance and once again not make noise. With the implementation of the last point, of course, the snow was hindered, stubbornly continuing to crunch underfoot, but this did not cause proper attention from the guy who was too deeply immersed in his thoughts. That was a mistake. Stupidity. The belief that he could cheat the system, escape. And how ridiculous it was to realize how stupid and childish this hope was.

The alley that Willbur had turned into to cut his way to the convenience store smelled foul and rotten. Neither from the garbage, nor from the corpses of birds that were lying in the corner of the alley. Poisoned? In any case, the Dream is not up to figuring out the source of the stench, even if it makes you grimace for a second. Willbur begins to suspect something, glancing back at the guy with the hood pulled up almost to his nose, and pausing for a moment to let the stranger pass. This is another of his mistakes, but he doesn't know it. He doesn't realize it until a guy passing by hits him in the stomach, causing him to hiss in pain and cringe, thereby completely losing control of the situation.

Dream can feel the beast inside growling triumphantly, glad to finally be given a little freedom. A fog fills my head, pressing down on my temples, but it even feels ... good? It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from the boy. It's getting easier, and his ears are starting to pop, so he probably doesn't even hear the pleasant crunch of Willbur's nose, which has been shifted to the side by the blow. Red drops fall mockingly slowly on the snow, and a few, as if on purpose, fall on the Dream's shoes, wanting to mark the culprit. But would Willbur complain?

The guy tries to do something, to get up from the ground, maybe even-to get the brass knuckles hidden in his bosom, in order to protect himself from numerous blows, but this opportunity is not given to him, grabbing his hair and forcefully putting his head against a brick wall. The body instantly goes limp in his hands, falling like a sack on the snow, stained with blood. Dream barely restrains the urge to repeat the blow, letting go of his curly hair, which quickly becomes wet and warm, and a trickle of blood, mixing with the drops from his nose, flows down under the collar of his coat, soiling his clothes. Dream snorts as he watches, slowly coming to his senses. How many times had he hit the guy who was now lying at his feet, unconscious? The guy remembers only the very first blow. Then he hit, it seems, instinctively, venting his anger, which had been accumulating in a nasty lump in him all this time. The fists themselves were eager to fight, and the mind did not think to stop them, allowing them to strike blow after blow. Again, and again, and again. Will's face was a bloody mess, and his nose, as far as Dream could tell in the dark, was badly deformed. It seems that someone will have to pay a tidy sum for the operation in order to return the organ to the middle of the face. But Dream doesn't care about the damage he's done. He's more concerned about what lesson Willbur learned from this, ahem, punishment. And it takes time to find out. The guy casually nudges Willbur in the side with his toe, turning him over so that he doesn't suffocate in his own blood. Dream, frankly, doesn't care, but there is information that would be worth knowing before the guy drops the skates. It remains only to wait until he wakes up.

*******

Dream is not a patient person, did you know that? Now, at least, you know. Willbur found out about it, too, when he was awakened by a handful of snow that was thrown in his face with some special cruelty. The guy wanted to shout at the one who dared to make such a cruel joke with him, but blood was flowing into his mouth, which he had to constantly spit out, and there was no strength to shout at all. His whole body ached terribly, and Willbur, trying to get up from the snow, instantly collapsed back into the snowdrift, whining like a beaten dog. My chest felt like it was in a vise of pain. How many times had he been hit there, how many ribs had been broken, reveling in someone else's pain? He didn't know what was going on, but somehow he was sure that the man standing over him probably didn't mean him any good.

Dream watched with the interest of a pioneer as Willbur's eyes widened in horror when he finally managed to raise his aching head, as he reached for his pocket. Oh, did he really think that his pockets hadn't been searched while the owner was passed out, pulling out all the necessary and potentially dangerous items? Even the keys, which the guy could in theory use as a weapon, were now lying a little further away, what can we say about the brass knuckles and the phone?

― Shit…

— Hello to you, too, Will, ― Dream snorts, stepping aside as if admiring the scene before him. It's not every day that you see someone you don't like lying on the ground, bleeding to death, and there's a lot to see. - How did you sleep?

― What, Blade sent his... ― the guy pauses for a second to spit blood on the asphalt, and continues. ― Your faithful dog to kill me?

― No-no-no-no-no, ― Dream smiles amiably at Willbur, as if he hadn't knocked him unconscious ten minutes ago. — I'm here of my own free will. You see, I have a few questions for you that I intend to ask. And, unfortunately, corpses can't talk.

― Is Blade involved in this? ― Dream rolls his eyes. He started the hurdy-gurdy.

― No, shut the fuck up and listen, if you're really interested in this conversation.

— And if you don't? ― Will snorts, sitting up a little, trying to get into a position that doesn't have the wild urge to scream from the pain that ripples through his body. My head aches, but I can still think. It's not much, of course, since he's gone into trouble again, but it's still a huge achievement in this situation.

― I'll kill you," the guy shrugs indifferently. — Today I was close to it, so it is unlikely that it will be difficult for me. But first, I think I'll put the rest of the ricin in the food of that kid who was recently taken to the hospital with a gunshot wound, and for whose fate, unexpectedly, you are worried. Do you think Toby will survive if I decide to kill him?

And for the second time that night, Dream sees the guy really feel fear. Fear for a friend. For a friend whose life now depends on his actions, on his decisions. If he went the wrong way, the thin thread called life would be snapped instantly. Willbur jerks at Dream like it's on fire, and instantly hisses in pain, his whole body clenching, which only leads to more discomfort in his chest. Broken ribs? And it seemed that it could not be worse…

— You wouldn't dare…

― Really? ― the guy raises his eyebrows mockingly, you walk from side to side, watching the victim out of the corner of your eye. ―- You are too arrogant, William, too sure of yourself. But in reality, you are a coward, unable even to complete the planned plan to the end. Do you want to protect someone you know? Commendable! But they're in this situation because of you, and that's ridiculous, don't you think?

― Get to the point. What do you want from me, motherfucker?

― The address of one person. No more, no less. I know you know him, so don't be silly, okay? ― Dream quickly pulls his phone out of his pocket, flipping through the gallery. Finding George's photo is just a matter of seconds.

— What nonsense is there? ― Willbur says with a forced grin, barely able to make out the silhouette on the bright screen that is being poked in his face. His eyes adjust slowly and reluctantly, but he still understands what kind of person is depicted in the photo, and the grin abruptly disappears from his face. He knows perfectly well what kind of person wrapped in a blanket is in the photo, knows his location, but... ― How do you know him?

The guy's voice becomes weak, frightened, and Dream snorts with satisfaction. They definitely know each other. And, judging by the fright, the guy really has something to do with Willbur's plans. But which ones?

— Does it matter to you? I just need his location and that's it, ― Dream shrugs, sitting down to look into the eyes of the guy lying in the snowdrift. — He's in no danger, if that's what you mean.

― No threat? ― Willbur looks at the man in front of him in disbelief, licking his own blood from his lips. — Why would you be looking for someone you don't want to hurt? I didn't think it was in your best interest to run after people.

― Times are changing, ― Dream just shrugs again. Well, do not tell the guy that he is attached to some random person from the network? And I don't think Tom would be interested. — So what? Or should I ask this question to that teenager?

― What teenager? - Will frowns, trying to figure out who he's talking about.

―Well, Tommy. You went to see him today, didn't you? ― Willbur feels something inside him break.

He's trapped, trapped. If he tries to get out of this trap, important people will die for him. But... if there's a chance that the guy won't lie and hurt anyone, give Willbur the information you need — isn't it worth the risk?

― Promise me you won't hurt Tommy, okay? ― Dream nods in satisfaction. The bird flew into the cage by itself.

― Give me the address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angry Dream does brrr


	22. Chapter 22

— Are you sure you're feeling all right? ― Tommy chuckles skeptically as he watches George continue to pace the room, dismissing the teenager's question. No time for explanations. And maybe Tommy wouldn't understand. George didn't understand anything himself. And it was annoying.

Sleep after the messages from Nightmare, as George expected, never came, and the guy fidgeted in bed, lying down this way and that, trying to get the body to sleep. It didn't work out. The brain was feverishly analyzing what was happening, and common sense, sipping cognac, proudly showed a sign with the inscription «fucked up». Brevity is the sister of talent, damn it. The guy is sick, hundreds of thoughts climb into his head, choosing just one of this lump is an impossible task, and therefore the guy only whines into the pillow, unable to even think about one thing. Or rather, select one thing. About «something», or rather «someone», he is now just thinking. Bright pictures, like spots of paint, flash before my eyes memories that the guy carefully shoved into the farthest corner of the subconscious, so as not to think, not to remember about it anymore. And it was all in vain. George stood in the blood-soaked square again, breathing in the foul metallic smell that filled his lungs, choking him, making it impossible to breathe without a wild urge to clear his stomach. He could see the man in front of him again, standing a little way off, looking at him nervously. George remembered clinging like a drowning man to a straw, to someone else's hand, how, in a fit of uncontrollable hysteria, he would grab someone else's clothes, voicing all the accumulated complaints to his face. Shouting them, trying to somehow draw the guy's attention to himself. Now that George could see clearly what had happened a few days ago, he suddenly realized that he could have just scared the guy with such sharpness. At the very least, he himself would definitely try to avoid meeting such a person. On the other hand, it was George who should have tried to completely eliminate Nightmare as a phenomenon from his life. There were too many unsaid things, too many secrets. There were too many indications that there were so many devils in the pool that it would be worth running with your heels flashing. Stay away, not allowing you to get closer than a few kilometers. It would be correct, logical. That's what anyone with a brain in their head would do.

Why, then, had George, who had never been reckless before, agreed to the meeting?

The guy felt like a stupid moth, which, spreading its thin wings, tried to get closer and closer to the luminary, but the sunlight turned out to be a lamp, landing on which the insect instantly fell to the floor, wounding its paws, burning the dog's wings to hell. George looks at his hand. The bruises have disappeared almost without a trace, and this is somehow disgusting. Burns teach moths to avoid, if they survive, the hot surface of the glass, so why did the guy agree, even after getting burned, to another meeting?

Another ... funny word. Their «meetings» weren't like that, if you think about it. As much as George might compare himself to a stupid insect, it was hard not to admit that every time Nightmare came to see him, the guy needed urgent help. And this was evident in everything, even in ordinary communication, when, after receiving another message, the interlocutor almost instantly appeared on the network, ready to listen and support. And it was worth a lot. And there was no way to cross out that «lamp» that lit up the darkness so damn bright. It's better to stay out of the shadows, even if you have to pay for it with burnt wings.

Nightmare. Should the guy continue to call the other person that, or use the nickname that Willbur shared with him a few hours ago? If you think about it, then the interlocutor did not give him permission for such an appeal to himself, and... it's strange.

― Dream, ― the guy whispers into the darkness, as if savoring the simple nickname on his tongue. It was so different from the usual, or rather, it was exactly the opposite. It was simpler, simpler, and yet somehow, despite its innocuousness, there was something menacing about it. Well, or George's lack of sleep was starting (or rather, already finishing) to go cuckoo. One of two things.

Nothing bad can happen, right? George rolls nervously onto his side, hugging the blanket tighter. I mean, nothing can happen. The worst thing that could have happened has already happened. Unless… No one can change the fact that the guy can just kill the two of them instead of Willbur, who refused the task. He had a gun, and despite the distrust of the robbers, George was one hundred percent sure that it wasn't a fake. Yes, he had never seen the boy use it, but he was too confident with the weapon in his hands, and it gave him a peculiar idea. «And on the other hand...» — The brunette, turning over on the other side, throws the dress behind him. ― «On the other hand, if he wanted to kill us, he would have done it instead of asking for a visit with text messages.» ― It's a little soothing. Indeed, it would be more logical to make your arrival a surprise if the goal was to kill two idiots who were stuck for an indefinite amount of time in some village that was almost on the very border of the city. And no one lived in this house for several years, until the corpses were found — they would have had time to rot ten times. But, if the target of the interlocutor is not murder, then everything became, if you think about it, even more terrible. This means that the words that they should postpone the conversation for later, thrown at the festival, were not empty words. It meant that he really wanted to explain, to talk. And this only made it harder, only more thoughts began to rush in an uncontrolled swarm of bees in the brain, hitting the skull from the inside, thereby causing a headache. Does that mean that Nightmare cares about him? The guy snorts sarcastically into the pillow.

The guy fell asleep only in the morning, when the room was already beginning to become light. Funny, he'd thought he'd never dream again that night, but his body had overpowered his thinking brain and unceremoniously shut down right during George's next argument with common sense, thus setting up a draw. In any case, common sense would have lost anyway in the end, so why continue this useless verbal battle? The guy didn't sleep for long, a few hours, if you believe the feelings. Extremely unpleasant, by the way. It was as if something heavy had been poured into her head, so that it was impossible to lift her from the pillow. He was terribly sleepy, and the guy tossed and turned in bed, closing his eyes, but for some reason his body completely denied him such a pleasure as sleep. Me too! Not really necessary!

There was very little tea left in the kitchen. It seemed to George that he had broken the world record for the most liquid he had drunk in the few days he had been in the house. As soon as the guy became ill or bored, a hot drink was already splashing in the cup, which, pleasantly burning his throat, reminded him that he was still alive, still exists, and this was worth a lot, given such a deplorable state. It was as if all the fear, all the pain that George hadn't paid attention to at the festival, were wrapped around his entire body like a dense cocoon, constantly reminding him of himself in sharp flashes, terrible images. And he didn't know when it would stop, or if it would stop at all — the memories were too terrible to dismiss as if they were a bad dream, and so he had to endure them, clenching his teeth, once again experiencing an uncontrollable panic attack that swept over him like a wave, knocking all the air out of his lungs. Endure, swallowing boiling water, hoping that it will help calm down. It was probably a Placebo effect, but the tea really calmed me down, helped me to recover. Even if only for a short time. Very soon, the people whose blood stained the square of the park where the ill-fated festival was held, in maroon shades, flashed before my eyes again.

Tommy shows up in the kitchen a few hours later, yawning and stretching lazily, scratching the back of his head.

― How long have you been up? ― he's more interested in saying something than actually wanting to know the answer. George shrugs. All he'd been doing lately was reading some stupid five-year-old magazines he'd noticed in the basement the day they'd moved in. There was nothing particularly interesting in them, but I had to be content with what I had, namely: strange advice, whiny love stories and occasionally found in some issues of sudoku.

― Relatively.

― About what? ― Tommy snorts, and George smiles weakly back. You can't say that the teenager is as worried as George himself. And maybe more…

*******

— Why are you so nervous? Well he will come, you will talk, it's okay -― Tommy feels like a spectator watching a game of tennis, looking at George, who is nervously spinning circles around the room, not stopping to whisper something with his lips. Is he completely out of mind?

― You wouldn't understand, ― George shakes his head. This phrase could officially be considered the phrase of the day! As soon as Tommy tried to find out something about the mysterious guest who was going to visit them, he immediately received this phrase in the forehead, which incredibly angered the teenager. But the anger, however, also did not bring any result, because Tommy only clenched his teeth, watching the guy's darting around the room. Time moved inexorably toward evening…

― What about Will? ― George pauses for a moment, considering the question, before continuing to pace the room.

― I don't know. He didn't show up online?

― Appeared, but nothing to my messages and did not respond after your dialogue with this, — Tommy nods at the screen. — What do you think happened?

― I don't know, but I'm sure he's fine, since he keeps going online, ― George doesn't care about Willbur's problems, frankly, although his abrupt intransigence and complete disregard for Tommy is, admittedly, very annoying. Too abrupt. Right after the conversation with Nightmare.

*******

**Wilbur:** i'll be there soon  
 **Pimpinnit:** You again?  
 **Wilbur:** Alas and ah! Can you give the phone to George?  
 **Pimpinnit:** This is my phone!!!  
 **Wilbur:** am i asking you to give it to him? I'm just asking you to give it to him for a few minutes  
 **Wilbur:** children are so greedy…

George chuckles nervously, looking at the screen as the guy hands him his cell phone. "I'll be there soon." Something breaks inside the guy, making it hard to breathe. Coming soon? The phone case is warm, and this heat pleasantly rises up the arm somewhere in the direction of the shoulder, pulsating there. Strange feelings from a simple mobile phone, or it's all about the messages on the screen.

**Pimpinnit:** How soon?  
 **Wilbur:** i got out of the train station. It's still decent to walk here, of course, but still…  
 **Wilbur:** haven't written off for a long time, by the way:)  
 **Wilbur:** i missed you

For George, it remains a mystery how the other person even realized that the phone had passed into his hands, and the question was not started by a teenager. How can this be understood with the help of the two received words?

**Pimpinnit:** You blacklisted me.  
 **Pimpinnit:** It was unpleasant.  
 **Wilbur:** is it just me, or is this not the worst thing that has happened since we met, huh?  
 **Wilbur:** but, anyway, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you with this. I'm just an idiot  
 **Wilbur:** i can personally apologize if you want  
 **Pimpinnit:** Meet you?  
 **Wilbur:** not worth it

George stares blankly at the screen, not understanding why the other person refuses to accompany him. Or is it just that the brunette wants to hurry up, even if the guy tries to convince himself that this is not true, to meet with Nightmare, while for him it is just an annoying necessity. On the other hand, what is the point of explaining something to a person who does not play any role for you?

**Wilbur:** it's cold outside, and you've only recently recovered. Do you want to risk your health?  
 **Wilbur:** so don't  
 **Pimpinnit:** Are you sure you're coming?  
 **Wilbur:** you can be such a jerk sometimes

George rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. Really, a jerk.

**Pimpinnit:** And yet?

The message is read, but there is no response. The guy starts to worry. What the fuck? Tommy looks out from behind him, watching the conversation. George is about to write something else, having received an obvious ignore from the interlocutor, but almost immediately a new message arrives, which is a photo. A dark photo of a snow-covered path. To tell you the truth, if George hadn't known the context, he wouldn't have known where the photo was taken. The clearing is too empty and monotonous to distinguish it from the hundreds of other similar clearings that are scattered around the world, but now the guy is one hundred percent sure that he knows this area perfectly well — he walked through it a few days ago, carrying packages and one annoying teenager.

**Wilbur:** convincing enough?  
 **Pimpinnit:** Perhaps.  
 **Pimpinnit:** Sorry about that.  
 **Wilbur:** wait me :)

― You guys are so weird, ― Tommy says, picking up the phone and quickly scanning the correspondence, rereading it. — And you never asked about Willbur! What if something happened?

― Nightmare would say, — the guy says uncertainly. — Anyway, just ask him, okay? He's on his way.

― Stop flitting around in front of your eyes, damn you! ― Tommy grabs George by the sleeve, who has resumed pacing up and down the room, constantly glancing out of the window, which, however, shows nothing but the overwhelming darkness. ― Calm down! Why are you so nervous?

— I'm not nervous, ― the guy sits down on the sofa, suddenly hiding his hands in his palms, exhaling heavily, trying to recover. — I just… It's weird, you know? I didn't expect this shit, I didn't expect him to write it at all, and now here it is. I sit and wait, like a loyal dog.

George throws up his hands, and Tommy looks at him blankly.

— What's wrong? You, if you care about each other, would have met sooner or later anyway. Yes, the situation is a little tense, but still, ― Tommy, wanting to calm the guy, slaps him on the shoulder. It seems to be working — the guy raises his head, looking at the teenager. — I guess if he didn't care, he wouldn't have done all this?

— What «this»?

— Well, at least he wouldn't have come here, don't you think?

― It's not an indicator, ― the guy shakes his head. — I can't be sure exactly why he's here. Maybe he wants something from me. We just don't know what it is yet.

― And what does he want from you? ― laughs Tommy. — The magazines for women over forty that you've been reading all day today?

― They're not for women over forty! Just for gardeners, and gardeners are people with quirks…

— Well, yes, with all the quirks. I can't imagine anyone willing to voluntarily spend whole days of their life for some green stuff they can buy at the market — Tommy rolls his eyes. — In any case, even that cold message. The weather outside is really shitty, and you were really sick. If he didn't care, would he remember that? Would has thought of your health?

― I don't know, Tommy. ― George sighs and gets up from the couch, brushing imaginary dust off his knees.

Tommy's probably right. If the guy really didn't care about him, all of this wouldn't have happened. There would be no help, no fucking pizza. There would have been no talking, and there would have been no waiting that gnawed at the inside of George, making him literally howl with a strange impatience that seemed to tear every muscle in his body, straining them all to the limit. And the dark-haired man knew that if he didn't care about Nightmare either, this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't be sitting on the couch biting his lip and wondering if it was all worth it. Should this person be allowed into his house at all, or should it be better to wait until this attachment finally disappears. He would disappear until Nightmare wrote to him again. It will reappear, definitely. Immediately after the first emoticon sent by the other person. But, if so, will it disappear at all?

― Want you some tea? ― Tommy laughs, stretching lazily, like a healthy cat.

— I think you're seventy percent tea, George, not water. - The guy plops down on the couch instead of George, his face buried in the phone.

*******

The guy himself does not understand how he managed to get stuck again, hypnotizing the wall and thinking about something incomprehensible. The tea in the two mugs was already beginning to cool down, and it would have been warm, not scalding hot, as the dark-haired man was used to drinking it, but he kept staring at the wall, as if there was some exciting movie being shown there, from which it was impossible to take his eyes off. Neither a knock on the door nor a call from Tommy, who, receiving no answer, went to answer the door himself in the end, brought him to his senses. The guy just sat there thinking, thinking, thinking. Thought, falling out of reality, straining all his remaining convolutions.

_Is it all worth it? Is it worth it? Do I need it? Why did I ever allow myself to become so attached to a stranger? Why am I so fucking worried? Why did let all this happen? Just why the fuck?! What the hell am I missing in my life, that my ass is so drawn to adventure?!_

― Hey, ― he said softly. Too quiet. The guy at first even thinks that he imagined it. He freezes, like a hunting dog leading its owner to its prey, feeling the presence of a stranger in the kitchen with his back, but unable to turn around to look at him. Someone else's footsteps are too heavy and loud, they beat on the eardrums as well as a hammer, or is it a headache? The guy doesn't know. He doesn't know anything right now, to be honest. He only feels that the person behind him has come closer. George even thinks he can hear someone else's heartbeat — so close is the visitor. He tries to say something, but no sound comes out of his mouth, what can we say about the movements or, for example, the turn of the head? A strange hand is placed on his shoulder, and George, squinting, can clearly see the familiar glove. So it's definitely not Tommy. Although, the brunette from the first second, as the person went into the kitchen, was sure that it was not him. Which means there are no more options, huh? Almost all the air has been drained from lungs, and he can hardly breathe. — I didn't expect our first full meeting to be in the middle of nowhere, just so you know. I almost got lost on the way here.

George laughs. Nervous, almost hysterical. He laughs, hearing such a familiar voice behind him, feeling someone else's hand on his shoulder. It seems that he has completely lost his mind. Fine, he hadn't used his mind before anyway, since he'd let it all happen…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah.. the author likes to pull the rubber.  
> YOOOO THEY MET

**Author's Note:**

> if there are any mistakes, then let me know.


End file.
